


Carry On (discontinued)

by Rhycake



Category: Original Work
Genre: Angels are assholes, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Demons and Angels, Don't get attached to anyone, Family Dynamics, Family Fluff, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Mild Gore, Nightmares, Original Character(s), Other, Rhy is writing angst again, fuck Casper, literally just fuck Casper, what is fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-26
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:34:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 24,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26115022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhycake/pseuds/Rhycake
Summary: After 18 years of staying indoors due to his father's strict laws, Marshall is set free in the world, finally allowed to search for his own path... but at what cost?
Comments: 5
Kudos: 9





	1. Prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone calls my name...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HERE WE GO!!

I can't remember my name. I dig my hands into my sides, hugging myself tight. There's shouting, yelling, screaming and I can't concentrate with all of it happening at once. 

I lift my head, I can't see clearly. There's a light in my eyes that blurs out the rest of the world, everything seems to be white. The shadows in the corner move — they're the ones that yell. 

I can make out a voice. It calls to me. 

"Run!" It says. 

And I reach out, try to speak. 

Then there's a pain in my throat. I can't breathe, my mouth tastes like ivory. 

I fall to the ground, it's cold and soft, my fingers burn at the touch and the shouting around me increases. I see a hint of purple, for a second, and then it's gone. 

The world turns black as I close my eyes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short.. but sweet! Next chapter will be in Third POV :D


	2. Dear Diary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ..today I met a quack doctor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We introduce our main character and some other people..
> 
> Enjoy the first chapter :D

**1981**

Ernaline opened the door to Casper’s study, her hands holding a small bundle of yellow, a thin blanket wrapped around a body. She started to speak, her grin spreading across her face and Casper can’t help but find it contagious. He set his pen down and got out of his seat as Ernaline spoke.

“You wouldn’t believe what Fyodor just gave me,” she said, struggling to stand still, rocking back and forth on her heels.

“Surprise me,” Casper said.

Her smile softened as her husband approached, her face appearing more relaxed. She handed him the bundle over to him, cupping her mouth as he took it gingerly.

“I don’t see why you’re so excited.” He said.

And then the bundle moved, a pair of blue eyes staring right back at him.

—

Casper Emile was a poet. He kept his books organized in his study, papers neatly stacked on top of each other, and a set collection of pens near his desk light. When he was six, Marshall had asked for his opinion on Casper’s newest poem — a new sort of experience for him, a burning need to add more to the story, let the words come to life and learn the meaning behind them. Days later, Casper opened the door to his room and snatched away the papers Marshall held. He tore and burnt them at the fireplace that same night.

Marshall forgives him. He has learned from many, many fights that there is no point in arguing with a stubborn Emile, so he forgives him.

**1990**

When he turns nine, Marshall meets his first and last friend.

Molly Eynon is a feisty girl. Her eyes are a dark shade of brown and her hair is long, past her shoulders, a wave of curls that stretches out whenever it rains. She wears a simple outfit with dull purples and grays, a mix that confused Marshall up until he stopped caring about her overall.

He walks over to the Eynon’s house, watching as people enter and leave through the front door, carrying boxes filled to the brim with clothes, books and several other things. Curiosity was a child’s best friend, holding their hand and tugging them along to mischief — but Marshall yanks that hand away this time and ducks under the boxes, calling out for Molly.

He finds her, kneeling in front of the small garden her mother had planted when they first moved here to Bryggen. Her hands were covered in dirt and he kneels down beside her. She startles, hissing hysterically even when she realizes it’s him. He hisses back in greeting.

“You’re so stupid.” She says, brows furrowing the way they always do when she talks to him. He pretends not to notice.

“I wanted to see that new spell your Ma’ taught you.” He says instead, a smile tugging at his lips. A light buzz of excitement goes through his hands as he tries to imagine a pale purple circle forming in thin air — Molly scoffs and his imagination subsides.

“Lenore isn’t my Ma’ you dumb cat.”

“She lives with your mom, though.”

“Doesn’t mean she’s my _Ma_.”

“But she could be.”

Molly scoops up a handful of dirt and throws it at Marshall’s face, too fast and sudden for him to react, and he ends up sputtering. Spitting out the bits of dirt from his mouth, he wipes his face and feels anger pricking at his chest. Molly laughs — of course she does — and gets up, leaving him to look up at her with anger in his eyes.

“It doesn’t matter anyway, mutt, because we’re leaving.” She says and dusts her hands clean, flicking the dirt back onto Marshall’s hair, which has turned into a messy nest of silver.

His heart drops as she keeps talking. “I’m more surprised that she took this long to realize Norway sucks. It’s too cold and there’s too many witches for it to be safe anymore! And there’s also you,” she says, crinkling her nose as she looks at him. “You’re too weird.”

Marshall’s heart palpitates at a horrifying speed and he supposes if he were any warmer in blood his face would’ve turned a different shade, but he stands up, words fumbling to get out of his mouth. “I – I’ve never even d-done anything wrong to you —”

Molly shoves him, arms stretched out and her palms dig into his shoulders. He stumbles back, nearly falls into the poor little garden, and he watches in shock as she crosses her arms.

“Mama says your existence is a curse! So of course you’re bad luck! And I don’t, ever, ever want you to be near me again.”

Marshall remembers that that night he came home to Casper, whimpering and with tears in his eyes, as he whispered that the Eynon’s were mean people. And Casper had picked him up and carried him to his room, murmuring strange words under his breath.

He had his first nightmare then.

**1994**

At thirteen years old, Marshall learns about magic.

“Get up.” Casper enters Marshall’s room, without preamble, with a book in hand and a cloud of anger surrounding him.

Marshall pushes himself up and out from under the covers, and turns smartly on his heel. Casper stands five feet away from him at the door, glaring, the air around him seeming to crackle with an energy Marshall can’t put his finger on. His dirty-blonde hair is combed back with not a single hair out of place. His eyes are a dark green that look as if he were always angry as he spoke down to people — he stood at six foot even — and he didn’t spare Marshall the same experience.

An eyebrow raises as he waits for Marshall to speak.

“What’s the occasion?” He questions, trying to keep his voice purposely neutral. The back of his throat burns from being dry and his eyes feel heavy as he walks to his closet.

He feels Casper’s gaze following him and he makes note that the man is in a good enough mood as to not scold him for not making eye-contact while speaking. “You’re thirteen now. Old enough to learn how to properly put that ability of yours to good use. I’ll be teaching you starting today.”

Marshall glances at Casper over his shoulder. Some other time, he would’ve laughed at how poorly timed this whole thing was — he is to be trained now, three months before the Witches of Old come to discuss the new rise and fall of magic across the world — but the old warlock wasn’t known for his sense of humor.

“And if I refuse?” He says, then adds. “I don’t believe I’m ready for such a—”

“Boy.” Marshall’s mouth shuts with a click. “Do not make me regret this. I’ll be waiting for you in the library, don’t be late.”

Casper leaves as quickly as he arrived, dark tailcoat following him like a shadow as he turns to stride through the halls, Marshall’s eyes follow him until the door is suddenly covered in a green light and slammed shut.

 _Good morning, Emile_. He thinks to himself before getting dressed.

Being an Emile meant having expectations come from all corners of the realm, whether intentional or not — that’s the rule Marshall-Lee grew up with since he’d first come to the residence. Emiles, as far as he knows, are a strong breed of witches.

Casper Emile, a Norwegian poet born thirty-five years ago, had never wanted a student. Even less a hybrid like a Marshall. He’d been everything but joyful when the Koroi, a small hybrid with blue eyes, had first arrived, a smile that pulled at the corners of his eyes when he held him up and welcomed him to his home. Then, as Marshall turned six, he grew more and more curious about Casper’s personal studies. He’d walked into his office while the witch was absent downstairs, his footsteps a dull noise from the kitchen floor.

Marshall grabbed and opened every book in sight, skimming over the words with excitement, eyes being unable to focus on just one of the spells that were written throughout the hardcover. He’d taken a pen and paper and written the symbols onto them as best as he could.

When Casper casted magic, he had written into the air and his finger casted a green light into a shape designed with runes and lines that connected to each other, and then they’d turn into whatever he chose. Often he’d see Casper bend light at will, whether with a worded spell or a simple flick of the wrist, and it’d fascinated him.

Marshall had tried doing the same, eyeing the symbols as he wrote in the air, feeling silly but grinning at it with childlike wonder.

He remembers warm hands wrapping around his, guiding him as he made little shapes in the air, and a gentle voice telling him, _This is how you do it. You’re going to be a great warlock one day, Mars._ And the memory makes him feel warm.

But that particular day, when he was sitting on the floor of the witch’s study, he hadn’t noticed Casper’s footsteps as he traced a circle in the air, his fingers tingling while a dim blue light followed it, crafting a sphere. He watched as the lines connected and twisted into sharp edges, a pentagram forming in the middle of it and he thought he’d done something special.

He remembers Casper shouting at him, gripping a bottle of red liquid in his hand. _Never do that again! Never come into my office_ — _Boy, do you hear me!_ As he snatched away the papers and emptied the bottle on the Koroi’s hands. _You will never learn magic under my roof!_

He also recalls screaming and his hands twitch at the memory of that potion — which he later found out contained dragon scales and iris petals — as he makes his way downstairs.

For the past six years Marshall has walked these hallways and stairs without batting an eye at the array of spell books, choosing to ignore the way his stomach churned at the sight of green and gold when a book was lifted out of its shelf and placed upon a table, ready to be opened. Most of his time was spent reciting Edgar’s olden stories about a cat and a raven and some other stupid short. And every now and then he’d see Casper enter the library and open a door, hedged between two bookshelves at each side, the fireplace burning three feet away from where it stood. Marshall had tried, several times, to open the door but it never unlocked.

Marshall’s eyes lift to the old clock standing next to the fire. One minute until seven. Though he loathes to admit it, he knows Casper’s schedule by heart, He supposes it has to do with the fact that it puts him at ease to know where Casper is at what time if he ever needs the old witch. Not that he does. Well, perhaps on occasion, whenever he wants to leave the house to go buy a new non-magic related book or food from the stores, but more often than not he settles for cooking his own meals from leftovers.

The clock lets out a shrill noise to announce the time and he turns the handle and to his surprise it unlocks for him. The small moment is enough to spur a rise in his anxiety and curiosity — something he’s been giving more into — hand tingling with that buzz of energy he’s only ever experienced in small doses. Fun. He walks through and almost startles at the sight he’s welcomed with.

Casper stands in the middle of the room — with windows tall enough to surpass the old clock — and books opened, floating all around him, getting picked up from the bookshelves and dropped off just as quickly. One in particular is sent towards Marshall, it stops short in front of him.

 _The Murders in the Rue Morgue_ it reads.

“I told you not to be late,” comes Casper’s drawl.

Marshall feels his forehead creasing into a frown. “I’m not.”

“Lee, if you are going to be difficult,” Casper says. “Then I have no problem taking back what I’ve said and waiting another three years.”

“Another three —”

“Lee,” Casper warns, “don’t test me.”

Resisting the urge to rub his temples, Marshall grabs the book in front of him and rips it open. The words are missing for the first few pages, much to his frustration, and then his anger subsides when he sees familiar runes in the following page. Casper keeps his back turned to him as he steps forwards, eyes flicking down to scan over the words in black ink.

“There are three realms in this world,” Casper says, not bothering to draw out the silence any further. “Each realm contains different amounts of magic within them, ours — the mortal place — being the weakest.”

“For we are not made of pure magic.”

Casper ignores him and continues, “The other two are meant for Daemons and Angels. Their magic is old, timeless, and powerful. A demon is born from mortals’ foolishness and ignorance, their anger, envy and greed taking over them and turning their bodies into vessels for magic. Impures. Angels are souls that are purified, all past memories and heartaches erased, and they are left vacant. Lifeless corpses who think their righteousness is the only way to purify a common man — And you will not even think about playing with their magic, boy.”

Marshall resists the urge to slam the book at hand shut, fingers trembling as he covers up a picture of some old witch embedded in the page, breath shaking as he exhales. “I wouldn’t dream of it, Sir,” he murmurs.

Casper’s voice comes out as a growl. “Watch your tone.”

“Sir,” he parrots.

Casper waves his hand and the books stack themselves onto a desk. For the second time that night he turns, his eyes gathered with a bile the Koroi couldn’t put their finger on. Marshall closes the book quietly and waits.

“We will start with the origins of Arcane Magic. How humans and creatures alike can gather magic from inside themselves and channel it outwards with control.” Casper’s eyes narrow at the last word.

“And,” Marshall forces out, “what about the warlocks and witches?′

Casper’s lips twitch downwards. “What about them?”

“Will I learn about them?”

“You shouldn’t worry about things that don’t concern you.” He says, in a way that pricks at Marshall’s side like a thorn.

Marshall tries his best not to grind his teeth together for the sake of his own need to learn and grabs a chair from where the desk stands, pulls it until it rests in front of Casper and sits down, eyes meeting the witch’s in determination.

Casper holds his stare for a full minute until the clock sounds from the other side of the wall. Marshall forces himself not to flinch as the man raises his hand and moves it towards the book, casting the pages within them to life and says,

“Magic comes from life itself...”

—

In another life Marshall would’ve believed Casper cared for him.

Casper’s voice is that small ringing noise that comes to Marshall when the silence is too deafening, explaining as to why he can’t leave the room tonight. As he’s done for the past five years.

Nightfall forces the last remaining people outside to shuffle inside, mothers beckon their children into the warmth of the fireplace, while the Unwanted — children and adults alike that were abandoned for their uncontrollable, weak magic — try to scurry out of sight. Curtains are pulled closed as the moon rises — a curious child peaks from under the cloth and witnesses the Witches of Old trudging through the snow, their masks and black attire a wicked sight for the unknowing. Marshall watches the witches, knife in hand as the carving he’s made is abandoned, no longer the focus of the boy’s attention.

“Stay here,” Casper says before closing the door to his room. And, per usual, Marshall replies with a curt “yes, sir”.

The witches don’t wait more than a second before the doors are unlocked by an invisible force. They step inside and Marshall drops the knife and carving — a wolf from his dreams that he’s grown rather fond of — and makes his way downstairs in silence.

By the time they gather in the library, Marshall’s patience has already been tested. The Janice, small shapeshifting ravens of Casper and his descendants, are being rather touchy, pecking at his hands and face and knees when he isn’t looking, simply because he doesn’t want to amuse them in answering their (stupid) questions about the dark arts. The Janice follow him. They perch on his shoulders and head, the rest flying next to him before perching again on the stairway railing. It’d been a murder parade the whole way there. He leans against the wooden bars.

Marshall tries to desperately fix himself, prying off the feathered pests as quickly as possible and restraining a sigh when they plop back down. Their sleek, black feathers stick to him like glue, the sparks of static burning the tips of his fingers. His ability, the simple manipulation of electricity, was useless in this situation, small cracks of electricity causing the feathers to stick more to him than he’d like.

Among the witches stood Dr.Vernada and their assistant, Atlas. The two are always together, as far as Marshall is aware. They are both quite tall, taller than most of the witches that are gathered there tonight. Iris Vernada wears a long white coat, long enough to touch the floor, their hair a mess with vivid streaks of dark green painted there. Their eyes are hollow and black, a single drop of color that comes from their pupil differentiating them from the Archangels — dark purple with a single green dot on each eye. Atlas, the younger boy, is almost as tall as the doctor, always ready to assist the doctor, whether it’s to take their hat or umbrella.

Every year Marshall would watch these two strut in and exchange whispers between the other witches while Casper gave a speech. And every year the door to his room would open up and Casper would continue his teachings, mood soured and his hand gripping the book in hand harder than he should. It was a battle between scientist and poet and both of them were too stubborn to compromise.

Tonight seems to be no different,

Casper enters the room, slamming the main doors open to announce his arrival, and closing them shut with a gentle move when the witches turn their attention to him. Despite it being the same sound Marshall has heard every year — every day of his _life_ — he flinches, the raven perched on his shoulder pulling at his hair in response.

“Stop it,” he hisses under his breath. The raven lets out a small caw, mimicking a crow just because she could, and then makes a loud, gurgling noise.

Marshall bats it, struggling to maintain his balance while the other ravens bob up and down as if copying him — the one on his shoulder finally quiets and struts off of his shoulder, up to his head. He quickly balances himself again before shifting his gaze towards his teacher, who was is turning his attention towards the doctor.

“Vernada,” he says. “I wasn’t expecting you to come here considering the North’s scandal with the Archangels —”

“You promised you’d let me take the stage this time,” says the doctor, rocking back and forth on the heels of their shoes.

“That I did.”

“Is it true that your family never fails to keep their promises? Or are you all just liars?” Iris Vernada wears their typical smirk, a smile that stretches thin and wide.

He hesitates for a second, then offers a silent nod. Casper waits as Iris hands their assistant their coat (their vest is, for some reason, short-sleeved despite the cold season, though Marshall supposes Russia is far colder than what Bryggen could offer) before stomping their foot to the floor and stepping back as a purple blast fills the room and covers it in energy.

The spell is something Marshall has only witnessed twice before — each time performed by one of the Old Witches. While Gha’tu and Quibli’s are more discreet, a silent stream and a gust of wind, Vernada’s is explosive and vibrant. The Koroi grits his teeth as the magic moves through him, mimicking that of a raging ocean’s wave during a storm. He watches the purple mist shape itself in the middle of the room. The Old Witches gather around, poised and unflinching as the mist reveals figures — humans — all dressed up from head to toe in bright colored clothes, though from here it only looks like a brighter shade of purple.

“The Archangels started their purge around midday on June 6th.” Iris says as the figures dance to their hand movements. Shadows rise with a curious amalgamation of blue and green, the colors clashing. Daylight dances with a conflagration of pink and yellow, painting the scene a warm and welcoming color.

The Archangels are one of the few terrors in the world that still drive Marshall to a cold sweat. He remembers Casper telling him that the angels were never meant to be seen in their original form, their magic too vast and pure for a mortal to handle them. Stories were still told of old men and young, reckless kids that had been blinded for staring at the deities’ form for a second too long, their eyes burnt and covered with cloth. Though tellings of the angels were still kept as pure; they were saviors who walked down to Earth in search of tainted souls, promising to help them see the light. The mist is not shy in granting the disguised a glow that stretches throughout the room.

Marshall resists the urge to lean forwards in fear of being seen, and simply watches as one of the humans, one with black hair, spreads their arms, excited, and then wraps them around a stranger. They embrace and envy touches Marshall’s eyes, which he quickly wipes away—

A flurry of feathers, white as the snow outside, emerge from the back of the human. Her grin is wide and honeyed while the stranger in her arms begins to _scream,_ his eyes blown wide as those wings, a perfect pair of three, begins to embrace him as well. Having never seen a soul being purified, Marshall’s stomach churnes. His mouth is sewn shut, a thin white thread buried into his lips, the trickle of blood that hurries down to his chin burns, and the tears in his eyes evaporate. The woman’s mouth moves, “Relax, I’m helping you,” she seems to say, swaying calmly back and forth as the man’s skin turns charred and the blood coming from the exposed skin boils. He twists and turns and—

Marshall blinks, turning to stare at one of the ravens. The beady black eyes do no help in taking that image off (from) his thoughts. The man’s eyes had been full of fear and the Koroi’s heart beats against his ribcage at an alarming speed—

Iris continues their speech, bringing Marshall back to his senses, and sees that the mist changes per word spoken, granting a clear display of more angels as they make their way North to the South. As his heart steadies to a normal speed, Marshall tries to pay attention, eyes flicking around the room as they discuss strategy and magics, a case that bores Marshall, and he loses interest when they bring up the Andersen’s massacre, an old Danish family of witches.

Casper has forced Marshall to visit them once when he was fourteen. He’d argued that he didn’t wish to earn another family’s trust and his mouth had tasted bitter when Casper brought up Molly again, as he often did when Marshall claimed he never had (and never wanted to have) friends. He’d waited at the door, listening in to the family cackling excitedly at their son’s grand achievement of the night: a new spell. He’d slammed the gift he’d taken with him against their door and returned home to the ravens.

“Why are you mad?” The ravens cooed, pulling at his hair.

And he didn’t answer them, opting to instead sleep through the loud static in his head.

The next day he’d gotten a letter. It had been addressed to him, not Casper. He’d opened it with mild curiosity—

Marshall gritted his teeth at the words:

**_Jealous much?_ **

Casper had walked down to find his apprentice sitting in front of the fireplace, hands stretched out to gain its warmth. The old witch had spared no second glance and the parchment burned away, pleasing Marshall greatly while the ravens stared at him in judgement.

He pushes himself from the railing as the witches mourn the dead family. He swallows down the pang of guilt in his heart and steps back until he’s pressed against the wall and slumps down to sit on the carpeted floor, the ravens flying down to join him in pity.

 _You should pay attention._ Casper’s voice rips through his skin and knocks at his head, loud and obnoxious. _Be respectful! You are in the presence of the Elder Witches._

At first he wonders why his heart is beating so quickly, so loudly — then he realizes it isn’t his own. The raven at his shoulder presses her head to his cheek and croaks, her heart at his throat.

“You shouldn’t slump.”

Marshall whips his attention from the bird, her whole body shifting backwards to avoid getting smacked. Atlas stands beside him. He still holds Iris’s coat and seems to have acquired their hat as well. Marshall follows his gaze back to the illusions, now telling of a runaway from the West, reds and yellows coming in a flurry of color that Marshall can’t look away from.

“You shouldn’t act like a lost puppy,” he says to him.

“I’m not the one that’s lost.”

Marshall bites back a retort. He doesn’t care what others think of him anymore, yes, but Atlas’ voice was soft in a way he hadn’t expected. Maybe it was because the Koroi is eighteen now, scarred and battered from years of magic, while Atlas is ten, brown eyes wide and open like that of a deer’s. And still he stays close to an Elder Witch while Marshall is never allowed out of his room when they visit.

He allows himself to sigh. “What do you want, Atlas?”

“Iris has been keeping an eye on you for five years now.” Atlas says, curt. “They say you’re wasted potential here.”

A punch to the face would’ve hurt less.

 _You’re wasted potential, Lee._ He hears Casper say, in that deep growl of his voice. One of the few memories he has is that of Casper standing over him, broken vase in hand, eyes filled with green magic, as Marshall sat on his knees, his cheeks cold as tears trailed down his skin. His hands always ended up burned.

“Emile?” Atlas says, and Marshall looks up, startled at the use of his last name. Not even the ravens mimic the word when addressing him. “I said Vernada wants to talk to you.”

He tilts his head back towards the ongoing performance and from his peripheral Marshall can make out a pair of wings —

“Casper won’t talk to them, why should I?” Marshall asks, not bothering to keep his voice down. He can _feel_ a few heads turn their way from the gathered few and a shiver crawls up his spine. Atlas is undeterred, however.

“Because they’re reaching out to you,” Atlas answers, brown eyes staring down at him, “it’s an opportunity, Marshall.”

“They’re a demon.”

“Yes.”

“Then they’re just as bad as angels—”

“Your prejudice is hurtful.”

His breath hitches as Atlas continues, “And I don’t blame you for how you were raised, but I wish you didn’t fear the unknown as much as the common folk do. They’re simply a doctor.”

“A quack doctor.”

“A _quack_ doctor, yes.”

“So I should just pack up and leave because some quack doctor tells me to?”

“Yes,” Atlas says, flatly, and then pulls out a letter from his pocket.

Resisting the urge to rip it apart, Marshall plucks it out of his hand and holds it up to the ravens sitting on him. The envelope itself is a dark shade of purple with gold letters at the back grabbing his attention:

To the sparky little cub.

The ravens look at it with the barest hint of interest, some reaching out to peck at it, while the rest resume their private, squawked conversations, and Marshall gets the feeling it’s nothing to panic about, ignoring who the sender is.

“The doctor is a good person, Marshall.” Atlas’ eyes dance as the mist finally retreats and hushed murmurs that Marshall fails to decipher take its place. “Write back if you are interested in what they have to offer.”

Marshall’s eyes catch Atlas leaving out of their peripheral, the boy hurries downstairs just as Iris calls out, “Adam! We’re leaving!”

They don’t notice it’s past midnight.

-

_I tend to avoid the current day events, the wars and plagues and endless bloodshed that brings nothing but hungry mouths to my doorstep. About half an hour before I arrived in Petersburg, an assassination took place. I don’t remember how or why it happened, nor do I care to search for the name of the man they killed, for I was more concerned about the knife that had been planted on my neck by a stranger. A maniac, actually. He has vivid pink eyes and a sharp grin that could rival that of an Archangels — I wouldn’t be surprised if, years later, you told me it was indeed an angel who killed me. Occasionally I think back to that night, when I’m up past my time staring at my eyes in the mirror. A single scar rests on the back of my neck, the place where I’d been stabbed by my pink-eyed fellow._

_But above it all, I’m thankful. I was reanimated years later, around the time your father was born, Sparks, and I’ve grown accustomed to these new times and language that has replaced my mother tongue. My senses have heightened, as most witches said they would, and I can smell, hear and taste everything with newfound wonder. A different experience. I made my way back to my manor, an old abandoned building scheduled to be destroyed by September._

_I tried to escort the men out of my house. They responded in crude words and mocked laughter, the kind you’ve certainly heard at those parties your father seems to adore so much. Though I am curious as to why I never see you at such places — your presence seems to be in only three rooms: the kitchen, what I can assume to be your room, and the library. I wonder what for?_

_Anyway, I killed the men. All five of them were used to contact your grandfather through a spell, Alfred Emile, a warlock back from my time, an old man who certainly didn’t seem ecstatic to see me again. Alive._

_But as old friends do, we talked. We talked while I cleaned up my house, all planks were replaced and all bedsheets were cleaned by work of my magic. It seemed to have grown stronger than when I had been alive — though the purple remained. He’d mentioned that your father was born, a few months before my reanimation. I felt my smile grow wider, the same permanent grin you see me wear now._

_‘I ought to meet the lad!’ I insisted. ‘I wish to see what you and Hariette managed to produce in the time I was dead.’_

_It turns out your father was a handful. From what I can remember, your grandfather took his time in teaching him how to be a proper man first, the essentials in producing a well-mannered, promise-keeping Emile rather than teaching him how to contain his magic. When the Elden Witches gathered, your father was there beside Alfred, chest puffed out and hands clasped behind his back, ready to assist whomever with drinks and their coats. Alfred always spoke to Casper in a calm, soft voice:_

_‘Would you get some tea for us, Casper?’_

_And your father would exit the room and be back just as quickly._

_So Alfred Emile and his son and I spent the holidays together, your granddad busy in taking care of the Elden Witches’ tasks with daemons and the Archangels—our Christmases were spent with gifts being passed between the three of us, too many to go around, so we recycled them and handed them to the Unwanted kids on the streets. And when Atlas came along, we included him in our tradition._

_The boy had been an Unwanted as well. A deer shapeshifter I took under my wing when he rummaged through my garbage, took an old music box I gave up on fixing, and made it new with small fragments of magic. His magic was of nature — have you seen it? His voice and eyes hold the forest’s gifts in them, gentle and sweet, far too good for the cold weather of Norway or Russia. Yet he was my boy to raise despite my clear hatred towards the little beasties — your father and Atlas being the only exceptions._

_Until now._

_Every year I tell Atlas to mend the seals at our residence, artifacts that I’ve developed to make the house untouchable in our absence, only the purest of demons could pass through, and even then I’ve set up several spells for the intruders. We pack our bags and set course to Finland, Sweden and then, finally, Norway. We gather many things in our passage: clothes, parcels, plants and limbs from the Midnight Market — the same one your father has most likely told you to avoid. I carry Atlas part way as we exit Sweden and avoid the crowded areas, for no demon should ever get too close to mortals, and we arrive safely at your father’s doorstep. That’s about fifteen hours of passage, from start to finish, with the help of my magic._

_Fifteen hours per year for the past five years._

_That’s seventy-five hours, four-thousand-five-hundred minutes of you not speaking a word to me or anyone on the council._

_Why?_

_Does my appearance scare you, kid? Because it’s certainly not as terrifying as that father of yours when he’s pissed._

_Or does Da’ tell you sit back and wait until we’ve all packed up left?_

_It wouldn’t surprise me if that were the case, actually. Your father was full of pride when he’d gotten you. You were a small, scrawny little thing with silver hair and weird markings on your face, a set of two black claw marks on each cheek, and a unique pair of eyes to match that untouched ability of yours. He adored you. He tried his best not to spoil you, kept you inside while Ernaline — the poor woman — tried to sneak you out._

_Does Daddy talk about Mum much? I suppose not. I doubt you remember her after all those failed attempts at magic._

_Don’t think I don’t know what with your blackened hands and that stress built under your eyes. Your father tells me you’re unstable. Unteachable. He came to me one night, while you were asleep, crafted a portal there in his study and stepped into mine while I was in the middle of extracting the essence from a water sprite. The prickly little thing had tried to bite me several times before I ripped its wings off. Immediately he manifested two glasses of wine filled to the brim for us._

_‘That boy is not worth the time and effort, Vernada,’ he said hoarsely. ‘He can’t even control his ice magic — let alone that lightning bit.’_

_He’d never mentioned the lightning before so, naturally, I was intrigued. I set aside my dying sprite and took the glass in my hand._

_‘What kind are they?’ I asked earnestly._

_‘Koroi. Blue blooded.’_

_‘A blue blooded Koroi under your roof. Those are rare these days, Casper.’_

_‘It’s no wonder why. The boy can barely control his anger! And what do I do when he turns twenty?’ said Casper. He glared at his glass and turned it into water, much to my disappointment._

_I said, ‘You can send him to the Archangels.’_

_Casper glared down at me and I shrugged, for no matter if I was sitting down the man was still shorter than me, and I was too happy about the drink in hand to care much._

_‘You’re smart,’ he said. ‘Help me do something with the boy.’_

_And I did. I spent that hour of my night trying to talk Casper into having more patience with you. He shot down any ideas I had — the potions, hexes and short-timed spells — and when I suggested I take you here, with me, he turned to the clock and uttered that he must hurry back home before you woke._

_‘It’s the middle of the night,’ I told him._

_‘I know.’_

_He casted a glance to my dead water sprite and waved his hand. The blue creature gasped for air, its wound closing and its beady little eyes gazed out in fear, and the wings beside it fluttered hopelessly. Casper bid me a goodnight, opened a door that led to his study (a closet, in my case) and he slammed it shut._

_We both know your father is stubborn, and I don’t doubt the fact that you could’ve easily inherited that along with his poorly timed humor. His anxieties and stress lines._

_Atlas told me you seemed stressed during the gathering, far more than you’ve been for the past five years. Has he threatened you? Locked you up? Your father, as smart as he is, is not the kind hearted. And while I can’t provide that same parental love and guidance you sorely crave, I can be of service to that ability of yours. Teach you, raise you and explain why you can’t control it. Not yet, anyway._

_I’ve taken plenty of your time, Sparks, and I leave you with a quote of a favorite character of mine:_

_Why is a raven like a writing desk?_

_Yours truly,_

_The Quack Doctor_

_P.S Have you ever wondered why we witches are never referred to as warlocks?_

_-_

He sits in his room with candlelight providing just enough for his eyes to read over the ink, gold swirls that move when he breathes over the letters too harshly and then return to their original sentence or paragraph. Small, trickster magic that he wasn’t accustomed to, and reading the whole thing had been a pain, but he ends up being lifted and dropped as the dots connect. His memories are altered as he thinks about the events. How his father was — the _old_ one.

The room is quiet, even with the ravens perched on top of his bed frame, watching.

Marshall stares at the last words, gnawing on his bottom lip to prevent himself from smiling. The sphere in his hand crackles with a small burst of energy as he rereads the last few lines, his emotions swaying from stressed to delighted.

He takes a pen and paper, licking his lips as a smile threatens to slip through, he writes down, in full black:

_Because Poe wrote on both._

And adds,

_Warlocks are witches who've turned into knights, using their magic to fight instead of studying it. There are said to be a grand variety of 'hybrids' in these specifics, witches being in the middle of it all._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: this is casper, he's marshall's dad and is a poet  
> my beta reader: I hate him  
> me: :D????
> 
> Chapter Two upload date: 09/01/2020
> 
> Edit: if another note appears underneath this one just ignore it idk how to edit it out :/


	3. Stockholme

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...is a lovely place this time of year.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> waddles in
> 
> heLLO
> 
> im here to sya i am SO SO SORRY for the late chapter cnds i meant to edit this back in August but school came up and i've been having trouble with it since SO im here to offer you this sacrifice that is chapter 3 of this stupid 7 chaptered thing i have written for my ocs
> 
> at most i think i can finish chap 4 by later and if not then ig i'll post it all in nov and then december can come and bite me ig ndsjknd
> 
> enjoy the chapter - theres a bit of gore and physical abuse in this fic but i don't think there's much else? if there is pls tell me and i'll tag it accoridngly

At first glance, people are quick to make assumptions about Iris. 

One is that they aren't quite, literally, a doctor. The title is there, yes, but that is where the semblance ends. From the letters they send, it seems as though they receive far more sick teens and elders than they'd like, if the clear blotch of black splayed in the middle of the letter says anything. It so happens Atlas has taken a liking to healing magic, the kind you'd see performed at small villages far East, where the elk roamed free with the bison and deer, and the city folk responds quite eagerly, leaving their children at Vernada's doorsteps without so much as a "please". It doesn't help that they refuse to take off that white lab coat from their shoulders — an aesthetic choice — and doesn't simply leave the children and grandmothers to die.

The other is the idea that Vernada knows nothing about others' emotions. They believe, repeatedly, that since they died and were reborn as a demon, their sympathy and empathy were taken in exchange for another chance at life. Which isn't exactly right. Iris, through all their mockery and curt jabs at Marshall's weak spots, knows what tone to use to calm him down, encourage him, and occasionally, make him laugh. Sometimes in the form of a song. They choose to turn a cold shoulder to merchants begging for help in carrying their bags, sneers when someone stands a tad too close for their liking. 

_ They're wicked,  _ Casper had said.  _ They're wicked and there's nothing more to it. _

He'd been allowed to accompany Casper one night to visit an old friend of his — Quibli, he believed — and while he worked, Marshall entertained himself by asking question after question about Iris. And Quibli gladly answered what he could, even the bit about the apathy. 

_ A side-effect for being in the Daemon Realm for too long.  _ Quibli had mused, red eyes narrowing at Vernada's grin on an old, framed photo.  _ Though as far as I can remember, Iris has always been apathetic.  _

Marshall had followed his gaze. The picture moved as the old witch waved his hand for Marshall to see the moment in full. He watched Atlas hand Iris a piece of paper, watercolor dripping from the parchment, and the doctor held it over their head, leaning back as if to inspect it. They cackled and wrapped an arm around Atlas's shoulders, hugging the boy while proudly announcing it was shit. 

— 

He takes a deep, deep breath. The night is warm, too warm, and he doesn't have the energy to sit himself up, eyes staring up at the ceiling with sorrow behind them. He can feel it. In his chest, his heart moves quickly, batting against his ribcage, and his breaths are shaky, and when he tries to swallow it gets stuck in the back of his throat and he chokes. He musters up just enough force to turn, facing the desk right next to his bed, and reaches into the drawers to pull out a small, metal bowl and spits into it. The blood from his mouth is thick yet it runs rather quickly, his throat burns and his eyes are unfocused. 

He is not sick. He has never, ever in his life been sick. 

His nightmares simply strain him, grab at his sides and drag him into the deepest pit of Hell itself and spit him back out, shaking and trembling and finding comfort in the small, sleek birds that peck him awake. And he's never minded their pestering before for company is something he's always longed for during the night — but he can't make out their shapes right now. Confused, he glances up, where they're usually perched — one, two, three, four, five seconds — he realizes they're not there. Marshall spews out more dark, almost black, liquid into the bowl and his eyes stare back at him through the murky reflection. Sickening. He puts the bowl on top of the desk and breathes in the fresh, winter air, and his chest cools down, just enough, for him to lean back against his pillow. 

The house is empty. He knows — the ravens are not in sight and they never leave the house unless Casper tells them to go along to wherever he's going. He imagines Casper grabbing one of the ravens gently (envious) and perching it right on his shoulder, and then the rest of the flock following them from a distance, without hesitation, and Marshall's heart gives a faint _ th-thump _ sound. 

And he tries not to dwell on it, because if there was one thing Marshall has learned throughout his life, is that Casper Emile cares not for his son, only the ravens that perch on his shoulders, his desk and on the trees outside, for they are his eyes, his ears for he himself is the Odin of this sad house. 

Marshall tries to think for a moment — behind his eyelids there are screams, yellow eyes that smile at him, an uncomfortable fire near his face and a sharp-toothed grin that all swirls around his head — and then kicks off the bedsheets with a tired grunt. 

He runs his hands through his hair, strands of silver are yanked and pulled out (not that he really cares), and his eyes adjust to the darkness. He sees, almost too clearly, and gets up to put on a different shirt. Once he's changed he leaves the shirt unbuttoned (there was no one there to point out the scars on his chest or the markings near his torso) and he drags his bare feet downstairs to scavenge the cupboards. 

He finds sweetbread stored in the back of the bottles of poison and other unearthly potions Casper has in there and takes it, stuffing it into his mouth and quietly closing the boards, turning at the heel for the library. 

Marshall contemplates on starting a fire as he grabs hold of the chair from the writing desk then stops short, swallowing down a bite of the sugar-filled bread, eyes drifting to the opened letters. Knowing Casper, these weren't for him, for they were left with wrinkles at the edges, and the Koroi's curiosity tugged towards them. He sits, dusting the crumbs from his right hand and grabbing one of the letters. He spares a quick glance at the clock — a quarter past midnight — and he pictures Casper's gaze for when he returns, the thought alone making him anxiously rush to read the paper. 

Even in the dark, with no way for moonlight to seep through, Marshall only blinks, staring at the first words of "Little Cub" swirled in gold ink on the dark paper. 

— 

_ I often find myself thinking about what to write to you. Your life is a pity show, with a father who leaves you behind on multiple occasions and a mother who abandoned you altogether, and you rarely write back, but I know you read these papers. You're a curious kid, far more than Atlas ever was when I first found him, and it amuses me to bits at how quickly you'd throw yourself into danger for finding out what something means  _ —  _ especially when it comes to magic. It was amusing to find you out in the forest, with your eyes screwed shut and your hands digging into your sides, pushing me away when I tried to get closer. _

_ You remember that morning, don't you?  _

_ I expect you to be traumatized. _

_ At morning light, I knocked on your doors  _ — _ the double wooden gates that never opened, not for me, and the ravens started to fuss about when I wouldn't leave. They tried to claw at my sides, my arms, my shoulders, a rather hurtful bunch that I still wonder about. Why do you let them near you? I reasoned, for a moment, if you didn't know about the pain they caused, but you're a smart kid. And you know better than to allow someone to hurt you like that. But then the doors opened  _ —  _ and there you were.  _

_ The eyes of Marshall-Lee are blue and spectral, a singular ring of gold surrounding them  _ —  _ wide and alert with an anxious glint within them. Your hands were digging into the wood, turning them a lighter shade, and then you saw me. Words cannot describe how you looked in that moment, with your eyes relaxing and the smile that you wouldn't allow to show behind that façade you always wear. You let me in, telling me Casper wasn't home. _

_ 'Do the ravens always stay behind?' I asked.  _

_ That joy faltered, for a moment, and then you shook your head. 'No, sometimes they go along with Casper.' _

_ I took the hint. Because though you are smart, cub, I have decades of knowledge ahead of you, your words are smooth but they're not Casper's. They're not that sweet. Not that convincing. Your father could have told me the same sentence, 'Sometimes they accompany me on trips,' and I would've believed him. But your words feel forced, always, when it comes to Casper and I can't put my finger on why. _

_ And I offered to take you out for a while and you refused. We bantered, as friends would often do, and you brought me some sweetbread and a cup of tea while we argued. It was green and my palate was destroyed for that half hour while you chuckled, sipping your own cup with amusement. _

_ You finally looked eighteen at that moment.  _

_ 'What about magic?' I asked, taking a bite out of the bread. _

_ When you looked up, a soft gleam of hope danced through your blue eyes. The raven on your shoulder tried to peck it out and you almost let it. _

_ 'What about it?' You said, quietly. _

_ 'I could teach you something.' _

' _ I don't think Casper would approve.' _

_ 'Casper isn't here.'  _

_ Your eyes danced around the room, looking for an excuse. The raven at your shoulder cooed into your ears, some words I was too far away to understand, and your hand trembled as you took a long, quiet sip of your tea. For a moment, I thought you were going to object, but you smiled at me  _ —  _ genuinely  _ —  _ and told me to wait for a moment, for you needed to get your coat and shoes. _

_ I waited outside, feeling refreshed and pleased with myself. The ravens tried to peck my shoes, yanked at my coat and hair, so I lifted a finger and swirled it around for a moment. From it emerged a small thread of violet that wrapped around their little ankles and flung them away when I flicked my wrist. You opened the doors in that instant.  _

_ 'Shall we get going?' You asked and I simply started walking. Straight to the woods, whistling that old song. _

_ Oh, come weary travelers of old..., it goes. You remember it, don't you? I whistled it all throughout our little hike, spreading my arms out and then bursting out into song. The lyrics were old, outdated, much like me, but they were still powerful. And you knew them  _ —  _ I can only assume you haven't forgotten them  _ —  _ and we sang as the snow tried to drag us down the further we walked into the woods, away from the people, the ravens, the distraction. I turned to you when you sang that last chorus, your voice soft and melancholic, expecting you to look miserable as always _ — 

_ You didn't look cold at all. You looked right at home. _

_ My smile was genuine that time, though you wouldn't have known. _

_ Your forest is vast. The snow covered it all, five inches deep, and the trees  _ _ ( _ _ are _ _ ) _ _ silent all throughout, with a large running river that stretches out throughout the county. State? Bryggen and whatever it is. The animals are too tired to move away from us, though our steps are silent, and if it weren't for our voices we would've managed to sneak up on them. There was a clearing, with bushes covering the path, and I walked right to the center. _

_ 'I'm going to teach you how to channel your magic.' I announced, slipping off my coat. I crumbled it into a ball and threw it, it vanished into a flock of white doves, taking off into the air. You seemed unfazed. _

_ 'I've never done it before.' You shrugged off the coat and hung it on a branch nearby. You didn't step any closer to me. _

_ 'You clearly haven't.' _

_ 'How would you know?' _

_ 'Come on, then!' I spread out my arms with a Cheshire grin. 'Send a lightning blast towards me.' _

_ And I try not to laugh as I write this, cub, but my hand trembles as I remember you, growling and glaring at me with the same enmity of a cat. You stayed that way for a full minute, puffing out clouds of white from your mouth, a glow of blue coming from your eyes and your hands – but ultimately, you crossed your arms and stepped forwards. A single step. I call it progress. _

_ 'Lesson one: magic is emotions and emotions are magic..' I said.  _

_ And I could go on, explain how the lessons went, but I won’t. I don’t want to. Isn’t it boring to draw it out? Your stances were weak and I made you work on your flexibility. Your attention seemed to dance around so I worked on making your strength. What caught my eye was your temper. It comes and goes whenever it pleases—  _

_ Sometimes at the worst time. _

_ ‘I can’t do it.’ You said. Your hands trembled as you tried to summon up one of the ravens, the silhouette of the bird glitching in and out of sight, and your frown was so deep I figured it’d stay that way. _

_ ‘You can!’ I laughed. I’d been resting against one of the trees. ‘Just focus!’ _

_ ‘It’s not that easy.’ _

_ ‘But it is! Just focus.’ _

_ ‘It doesn’t work like that for me!’ _

_ ‘Just—‘ _

_ ‘DON’T TELL ME TO FOCUS!’ You snapped and the magic from the spell was released, all too quickly, and it echoed through the forest, a shrill noise that hurt my ears just thinking about it, and the animals wheezed out in pain at the sudden disruption. In front of you, a bird shrieked, its feathers set ablaze and I watched it helplessly crash to the ground before I put out its flames, a small whistle that swirls and surrounds the little thing. It recovers quickly and flies away, but I'm sure it died, shortly after, since it was so fragile. _

_ And I approached you, fixing up my vest and bringing my smile back for appearances. _

_ 'What a miserable performance! Maybe Casper was right about you, being a hybrid and all. All that magic must be so hard to control  _ —  _ oh and that  _ anger _! How terrifying.'  _

_ You didn't answer so I kept going. _

_ I brought up your mother (she's dead on the record, the Ravens know this). I spoke of your father and how his biggest mistake was to give you another chance. I said, 'Ernaline was too kind. Though I suppose he always saw the good in people who didn't deserve it.' I told you that if not your disease – that anger of yours – then you could've done it. That you didn't have anything to be angry for, considering that pampered life I thought you had _ — 

_ You let out a sob. I circled around you, my voice gone. Lips unmoving. Your cry was raw and quiet, your hand instinctively went to cover your mouth when you noticed me, your eyes danced and turned to slits. _

_ I, in my thirty years of life, my two decades of death, have never understood how people can comfort crying people. I've been told to try to hug others who panic, their screams somehow subsiding. But when I watched you tremble, muttering some words about 'failure' and 'sorry', you shoved me away. They say to apologize there and then, but you couldn't accept it and your breathing was ragged, uneven. I tried to hug you again  _ —  _ You screamed, 'GET AWAY!'  _

_ And I tried forcing you to calm down. I rested my hands on your shoulders and though you thrashed, your choked crying became more and more unrecognizable, and the words flowed out of my mouth. As you know, you cannot look at a celestial being without being burnt  _ —  _ but what of the Daemons? I remember how your tears stopped, for a moment, as I opened my mouth. You saw me out of my disguise for a split second  _ —  _ a full set of teeth and a dark complexion, with tar dripping from them, it stretched out through my face, and it smelled of acid  _ —  _ and then with a click it returned to normal.  _

_ I thought you would've calmed. _

_ I thought I did the right thing. _

_ But you simply cried, unfazed, and I stood still as you shouted at me for doing that. You curled your hands into fists until blood dripped from them, and I whispered your name. You did the unthinkable. _

_ You ran.  _

_ I heard a gunshot, one that was aimed for me and my heart, and I waited. I collected your coat and cleaned up the blood left on the snow, still fresh. I left my own cuts on my arms for they were unimportant. I walked back the way we came and the ravens mocked me on the way back. _

_ Snappy little things. _

_ You waited at the doors, hugging your knees and you didn't even greet me when I let out a hushed 'hello'.  _

_ I sat down next to you and you lifted your head. _

_ You looked so small, right there, and I felt a pain rip through my chest when you whispered, 'I'm used to it,' and, 'I'm sorry,' and, 'Don't tell Casper,' and then you got up. Your legs wobbled and you were teary-eyed still.  _

_ 'Come,' I said as you opened the door. You hesitated then took a wary step towards me. I embraced you.  _

_ You didn't lift your arms, didn't make an effort to do it, and instead pressed your face against my chest. We stood there for a brief second, just a moment, and you pushed yourself away from me. _

_ You stepped back inside and bid me goodnight.  _

_ The ravens wouldn't' stop their cawing. _

_ And I, cub, stayed awake for endless nights thinking and asking myself why it had happened. How it could have happened. And felt myself grow more and more restless. I am not blaming you nor do I know why you reacted that way, I am only just now realizing that you think you are the bird that is kept under lock and key.  _

_ You could've gone anywhere but you went back home. _

_ Do you know why? I don't.  _

_ Nor do I wish to know. _

_ I am writing to you, this, in case you've forgotten it.  _

_ I don't want you to forget it; the laughter, the singing, the failure, the crying, the horror, the fear. _

_ Because everyone deserves the full story, don't they? _

_ Sincerely, _

_ Iris Vernada. _

— 

When Marshall's sure there is not a single person around, not a soul or ghost or celestial presence in that library, he lets the tears behind his eyes go down his cheeks, the hammer that pounds from his ribcage bangs on his skull, with the letter crumbling in his hand. 

And he stays there until Casper comes home. 

And he's numb when the yelling comes, the belittling and the hand that rests on his shoulder is warm (too warm) and he watches Casper burn the paper away. 

— 

Iris comes by more often. 

'Often' is every few weeks, and sometimes they bring Atlas along for Marshall to converse with (he avoids meeting the doctor's eyes when he can) and sometimes Casper lets the two of them be alone in the same room if a Janice is present. 

"He's become more strict, hasn't he?" Iris would say, sounding amused. "But I suppose that's what happens when you become old. You grow more sour." 

"I don't think so." 

"No?" They grinned. 

"I think he's just tired." 

And Iris would hum, their arms uncrossing. They'd take out a deck of cards and sit at the dinner table and shuffle them until they were aligned in a line in front of them. 

"Want to play?" They would say. 

And Marshall saw it as a good sign. 

— 

The days feel shorter when Iris visits. They study magic in secret, disguising it as a mere card game, and Marshall smiles at the knowledge he's gaining. He finds peace in talking to the witch, all past forgotten (but not forgiven). And they write each other letters when they can't see each other, bantering in them like siblings, and every now and then he gets a spell written on a piece of paper instead of paragraphs and paragraphs of poorly made jokes. 

On those days, Marshall sees a small picture on the parchment. It's never in color, only black and white, but it doesn't matter. 

It's sometimes of Atlas doing a new technique, his grin wide and happy, almost contagious, and the freckles on his face disappear behind a red flush. 

Other times it's Iris themself, frantic and laughing with every word, holding up a new invention or a small reptile in their hands, a grin stretched upon their face with pride. 

And with each passing letter he feels himself growing closer, and closer, and closer. 

He tells himself it's a good sign. 

— 

The Janice would visit his dreams when he lets his guard down. They're passive for most of them, and he sits at the base of a tree, knife at hand, and he would for some reason start carving out symbols into his hands. The ravens would perch on his arms and shoulders, tugging at the knife into shapes and tell him he's doing well. 

He doesn't know what those dreams mean. 

But he wakes up, cold sweat dripping from his forehead, and as he grips the sheets he realizes his hands are colder than they usually are. 

He checks, turning them over to see the palms of his hands — 

Bleeding. 

The ravens perched on the bed frame croon, telling him to go sleep. 

And he does. 

— 

Iris sends a letter, addressed to them both, that they'll be joining the Emiles for a Christmas dinner. 

"You're both so lonely," it says, "and I think it's about time we all get to know each other a little more, yes?" 

It had taken hours of wordplay to convince Casper to allow the small get together. He'd promised, under no circumstances, would he use any form of magic around Iris. And to his surprise, Casper agreed to it, albeit with a scowl and he'd gripped his pen so tightly his knuckles turned white — but it was a "yes" nonetheless. Marshall feels a bit excited at the thought. 

— 

On Christmas night, set around ten, Casper gets him a new coat and puts it on Marshall himself. He himself is wearing a black attire, complete with gold and green engravings on the vest, the emblem of a griffin pinned above his heart. His hair has noticeably less grey and his hands are gloved. The witch dusts Marshall's shoulders and smiles, for a moment, with a hint of pride that Marshall tries to hold on to but then it's gone. 

"I'm not comfortable with you inviting that demon over so much." Disappointment is always present in Casper's voice, yet it still hurts. 

"I don't invite them," Marshall mumbles. 

"Still." Casper's eyes scan his face. Searching for.. Something that Marshall can't quite figure out. 

But the man always closes him off. He gave up on trying to understand him months ago. 

"I'll go check on dinner," he says and leaves the boy standing in the living room. Marshall's eyes follow Casper until he's out of sight, his cloak forming spirals behind him, and a pair of sleek black feathers trailing close by. Nostalgia pricks at his chest or maybe it was melancholy— 

Someone knocks at the door. 

Marshall bites back the urge to run straight towards it, adrenaline running through him for some unknown reason (maybe it was the formality of it all) and he walks towards the door, running his hands through his hair to undo all the hours of hard work the ravens had done, feeling more comfortable as he opens the doors. 

"Welc—" his voice cuts off at the empty sight. The snow is untouched in front of him, no visible footprints anywhere. 

He glances back at the living room and sees no movement from anything other than the fireplace, flames dancing about nervously, and he bites the inside of his cheek. 

Then cold, boney hands are placed on top of his eyes and he twists, panicking, trying to get away from them. 

Iris's cackles fill his ears as they turn him around violently. He blinks his eyes open and frowns as Iris says, 

"Did I scare you?" 

"Never do that." 

"Of course — Oh, have you shrunk?" They place a hand on Marshall's head.

"Fuck off, will you?" He swats it away, much to Iris's amusement. "It's enough that you make fun of me in writing — can we just pretend you're happy to see me?" 

"I am happy to see you! Why wouldn't I be? Who else could keep me company during the holiest of holidays?" 

"Just come in you quack, it's probably freezing out. Can't you feel that — Oh, Casper's in the kitchen. He isn't very fond of you being here, you know." 

"He's biased." Iris scoffs, as the doors close behind them. 

When Iris walks into the living room, Marshall is barely able to focus on anything other than the doctor's appearance. They ditched the white coat, replaced it with a small dark purple tailcoat suit, stripes of dark green colored on the tie and they’re wearing  _ heels. _ A satisfying clicking noise comes from them as they hit the floor and he watches them move— 

Iris crosses the room, passing the kitchen and heads upstairs instead — and Marshall's blood runs cold, turning at the heel to follow them.

He chases after them, hushed calls of their name escaping his lips in a weak attempt to grab their attention, and they slow to a near stop, walking slowly as they stare at the line of paintings and photos Casper has placed up for display over the years. They're filled with familiar faces of the Elden Witches and unfamiliar ones such as the golden haired woman, her eyes a bright shade of green. They were  are all framed in line, different shapes and sizes all across the wall. 

"He kept these," the doctor says, flicking their finger at a framed photograph of the green-eyed woman. His mother. "I thought he wasn't the sentimental type." 

"She was his wife." 

"And?" They spit, lips curling back into a grin. 

Marshall turns away from the photo, glaring right up at the doctor — he knows he looks bitter, the hands at his sides tremble as he forces them to stay still, and he takes in a deep breath to calm himself. It smells like acid. He tries to ignore it, squeezing his eyes shut for just a moment— 

"So young," Iris mumbles, forcing him to look up at them. They stare at a family picture, the one with Casper and Ernaline, holding another child in their arms. They looked happy, there, with their firstborn. Marshall's heart leaps to his throat as unpleasant thoughts flood his head. 

_ Just breathe, _ he thinks. 

"We should go back." Marshall reaches out to grab at the witch's arm, his voice just loud enough to surpass the thoughts. 

Iris turns to look at him, startled, as if they hadn't heard him calling out their name until now. "Oh, you're here," they point out. Turning to the photo with a smile, "Has he always been so quiet? I hardly heard him until now — Must be the predator in him." 

Marshall's body tenses. 

The witch continues, tracing a finger over the glass of the frame, "Dangerous kid, isn't he, Ernie?" 

His hand hovers above Vernada's arm, his entire body goes still as brief, unwanted memories of the doctor's letter flood his mind, the aftermath, how he'd been so  _ miserable _ — the doctor moves for him. They take hold of his arm and yank forwards, stepping through the wall as if it were a curtain and a rush of ice flows through Marshall's veins as he expects to bash headfirst into brick. He opens his eyes and finds himself standing in his room. The wall had been nowhere near it, not at all, but here he was  is , breathing heavily with vile threatening to flow out while Iris takes in the small space. 

"How cute," they say, moving to grab and poke and prod everything they can get their hands on. They open books and close them just as quickly, flicking over a few pages that must've caught their interest before putting it away, letting loose small spells he's written down (the flowers that bloomed were a scrapped gift for Atlas) and a raven flies out of one of the pages (he hopes she can forgive him). 

She falls to the floor, confused and startled at the sudden change of scenery, turning its tiny head around until she finds his gaze. He grits his teeth as she flies over to rest on his shoulder. She pecks at his cheek and pulls his shoulder and he lets her, too scared to swat the beak away. 

"… so many failed attempts. No wonder Casper is in such a foul mood — Oh, but does he know? I'm guessing he doesn't." 

_ He doesn't, _ Marshall thinks. 

"I told you, you were a lost cause!" The doctor laughs, tearing out a page from the book and watching it burn under their hand, acid spreading under their fingertips, turning to soot and then blowing it off with a puff of air. The ashes are carried around the room and Marshall's nose wrinkles at the smell. 

"I thought you were done saying all that shit to me." 

"But you haven't learned your lesson." 

"It doesn't work like that—" 

Iris laughs again when they turn the page. Their eyes shine with magic, floating the book and spreading it open for Marshall to see. It's a drawing of a beast he's seen in his dreams. The eyes lack pupils, colored in a bright hue, the fangs and claws are the size of his finger, its back is hunched and raised as if hissing. It haunts his dreams when he has them. 

Iris says, "Daddy's been tormenting you since the morning lessons, hasn't he?" Then laughs, wicked and loud and it digs under his skin. 

Marshall's hands curl into fists. 

He walks towards them and snatches the book from their hand, baring his teeth in what he figures is a broken smile. A fake one. He can't keep his voice from sounding strained. "Iris," he says, swallowing down the rage that's building up (why he's suddenly so angry, he doesn't know). "I convinced Casper to let you come by and if you're only here to mock me—" 

“Why would I mock you—“ 

“—then you ought to go back—“ 

“—really it’s funny you think that—“ 

“—I don’t want you to—“ 

“—because Casper says—“ 

“THIS IS NOT ABOUT CASPER!” Marshall snaps, eyes wide and shackles raised. His whole body suddenly overcome with uncharacteristic rage. He’s angry — doesn’t know why — but it shuts Iris up, their head tilting to the side curiously. 

"You haven't changed at all," he croaks and, to his disgust, Iris lets out a laugh. 

"Oh, if only Casper were here to see you." 

A pause. The whole room is now quiet. The walls aren’t too thin, but they’re thin enough, and the raven is silent on his shoulder, no longer pecking him or squawking up a terrible ruckus to cover up his yelling. He remembers his promise and breathes in the poison in the air, so strong and awful on his lungs. 

"Let's go back down," he whispers. Marshall imagines a world where, for just a moment, Iris is genuine. Where their emotions are clear and their words don't sting like needles from a bitter, angry beast. A place where, when they smile, Marshall doesn't feel the need to claw it off their face. A world where that letter never arrived, and he could still look up to the witch without wishing he were off, in another place, where the chants of Beelzebub fill his thoughts. Because that's what he deserves for wasting nineteen years of Casper's life. 

But right now, at this moment, he simply feels tired. And he moves without thinking towards the door. He opens it and goes through, not bothering to check if Iris follows him. 

— 

Casper and Iris talk throughout dinner. They speak in Iris's native, Russian, and Marshall struggles to keep track of it all that it results in him feeding the raven at the table instead, watching them peck at the crumbs like a starving bird. They talk over the venison and Casper shouts at one part (Marshall’s hand trembles as he takes a bite out of the red meat) and Iris retorts with a possible counterpoint — and it goes on for three hours. He knows the Vernadas (or the single one left) and Emile were never friends, not even back when his mother was alive — the conversation in front of the paintings and photos from upstairs made it clear — but he doesn’t know, for the life of him, why Casper allows Iris to be so close now. It makes no sense.

But anyway they eat their dinner and, as the clock strikes twelve, Casper tells them both to wait. Marshall was mid-way to rising from his seat, awkwardly glancing between the two witches before settling back down, hands resting on the table. Iris looks at Casper — and for a moment he swears there’s regret within those vacant eyes — but he blinks and the witch is grinning down at him. 

“I’ll bring dessert,” Casper says, picking up the plates and glasses with a green light, and carrying them off to the kitchen. He spares the two of them one last glance before closing the doors. There’s no slam this time.

He’s too strung up on that to notice that the clock isn’t ticking anymore, and the fireplace no longer dances, that the room, in its entirety, has gone still and silent. The raven that pecks at the table moves, but slowly, and can merely blink when Iris gets up from their chair and circles it to stand in front of him.

He startles when he sees them — forces his body to move, to sit towards them. The doctor doesn’t make a move, simply stands there for a long moment, neck craning down to get a look at the boy, lips a thin black line. His heart drums calmly in his chest for once.

“Me and your father talked,” they say. The smile on their face doesn’t match the startling quiet of their voice.

“Ok,” he says, dumbly.

“Listen, Marshall—“ Iris cuts themself off, looking around the room, cautious and wary for once, their eyes glow with a sea green hue. When he can’t hear the ticking from the old clock, his pulse quickens—

“I’m sorry,” Iris whispers — breathes, actually — and kneels down. Even then they have to lean down to meet Marshall’s eyes. “Casper told me about the letter, those nightmares...”

It’s surprising that his heart rate doesn’t beat to the sound of a marching band — it simply gives a steady  _ th-thump _ and carries on, trying its best to slow down his pulse and remove that adrenaline from before. And instead of snapping back, he nods, tired.

“You...” Marshall’s voice nearly cracks, it threatens to. He tries to look away from the witch, find some form of distraction, but the raven made him think of blood and numbing pain, and there was no one else in the room to stare at. He swallows and says, “Why do you call me dangerous?”

Silence.

And then, Iris sighs. “Because you are.” Their tone is berating, like that of a parent to their child. Like it’s not a serious matter at all. It irks him.

And he opens his mouth to speak but then— 

_ ‘You curled your hands into fists until blood dripped from them, and I whispered your name.’  _

He feels sick, then, as the words echo in his head. And Iris pretends not to notice, because he knows he looks pale and sickly now, his eyes unfocused.

His voice is quiet, trying to convince himself, “I’m not dangerous. I never was.” 

Marshall doesn’t know what to expect but Iris drags the chair from Casper’s place and brings it next to him. They sit and wave the raven away when it tries to peck at their arm, watching it fully, and then their eyes glow a darker shade. The raven croons weakly before shuffling towards Marshall instead, climbing up his arm. He keeps his eyes on the witch.

“You know you’re a Koroi, right?” Iris asks, pinching their fingers together in mid air and then drawing a line. They spread them and his book appears; recognizing it Marshall almost grits his teeth too hard and simply nods, silent.

“Yes.” Marshall says, then adds, “A blue blooded one.” 

Iris nods. “Know anything about them?” They open the book again and lick their finger to flick through the pages. “There must be something connected in that library of yours that tells you about them. Anything?”

“No.” He says, eyeing the book warily. The raven moves up and pulls the collar of his coat, he can hear the quiet rumbles in her throat as she pulls, releases then pulls again, muffling out his thoughts. “Casper got rid of them after you sent tha-that letter. I know nothing about them — about  _ me _ .”

Iris stares at him. They look eerily like a porcelain doll, the kind Quibli would bring when presenting news to the Elden Witches, with eyes that look more sorrowful as the seconds tick by. They were always creepy.

Iris places a hand on the table, using it as leverage to raise themself to their feet and stand in front of him. They utter a simple, empty word: “Shame.” 

They walk a few paces towards the center of the room, seeming to count the steps before turning around. Blue eyes look up, watching as the witch stretches their leg out, a way a dancer would, before lifting it up, past their shoulder, then slam it down with a startling force. Marshall has no time to react as a burst of magic shoots upwards, high enough to almost kiss the ceiling, before crumbling down. Iris opens the book, holding it with their left hand while raising their right, drawing circles in the air repeatedly — the magic takes form: sharp claws, ears, bared fangs and a tail that threatens to smack Marshall's shoes. He doesn't dare move. It seems to breathe, what should be blue eyes are a deep yellow, glancing around — searching — tongue darting out to taste the air. 

His nightmares showed him an exact replica of this creature. It always starts with him running through the woods, boots digging into the deep snow, huffing panicked breaths as the creature behind him lets out a shriek. It always ends with him failing, backed up against something (most times a tree) and then watching as those blue eyes catch sight of him and pounce.

Iris interrupts his thoughts — then stretches their palm out. The creature  ( then ) turns submissive, breath steadying until it is silent and, still, Marshall's hands shake at the sight. 

"Koroi are demons of ice. Living in the mountains, they're born during storms granting them the ability to predict and often change the course of the thunder, and, of course, are said to be one of the most dangerous predators of winter." An impetuous but controlled flow of electricity moves through Marshall's hands at the word. "Most of them have been hunted for their blood, for it contains raw, untouched magic, the kind daemons would love to feast on, given the chance. You, however, are an interesting case." Iris's fingers dance, a pattern he's never seen before, and the shape of the beast — the Koroi — changes. Its fur, a dark grey with flecks of white covering its belly and face, is now almost pure white save for the markings coiled around its tail, face and body, the paws all colored a dark hue. 

"Blue blooded Koroi are born as hybrids. They control, typically, two types of elemental magic." 

There's a numb feeling on his arm, almost cold; Marshall's eyes drift downwards and see, in plain sight, a blotch of dark blue seeping through his sleeve, the small black feathered culprit staring right at him. He swats the raven off and stares back at the illusion. 

His heart skips a beat as it growls, deep and feral.

"Surprised?" Iris says, casting away what he could only call his reflection. The circle they crafted subsides and leaves behind a mark on the floor. 

Marshall releases the grasp he has on himself, raising his head to meet Iris's eyes. Here, Marshall studies the crow's feet, faded around the black, hollow circles. And his mind tells him, talk to the witch — but the only thing he sees is that demon from the letter. With a sharp grin and a gaping jaw that could open up any moment now if he wasn’t careful. 

The demon waits, for the first time silent since they arrived, and the boy can only stare as he collects his thoughts.

Casper will be back soon, he thinks and uses that as a push to get through this quickly.

He breathes, shaky and nervous. But he doesn't need the anxiety, not right now. He rolls his shoulders back, to the raven's consternation, and swallows the lump in his throat. 

"I'm like you then?" He asks, meekly. 

Iris stares at him — then starts to laugh, rich and relieved and sucks in a sharp inhale as if to calm themself. "Child," not boy, "you are nothing like me." 

He imagines sharp teeth and bloody hands. He agrees with them in silence.

“So now what..?” He asks.

Iris kneels down in front of him, the second time that night, and Marshall cannot look at them in the eye. No matter how hard he tries.

“Kid,” they start, but then their voice dies down. They lift a hand and draw a pentagram, muttering under their breath a quiet word — “release”, he believes — and then, the room goes back to normal. The clock ticks at a normal pace and the fire dances with the burning wood. And the raven lets out a shrill scream, right next to Marshall’s ears and he winces (he finds it less surprising that Iris is unfazed than he’d like). 

“What did you do?” comes Casper’s voice. 

Marshall startles, gripping the table and readying himself to stand — but Iris gets up first, leaning against the table comfortably. They look relaxed and Marshall pries his eyes away from them to look at the witch—

He remembers that look, ready to scream and shove him into a locked room with no means of light or air for hours. His eyes always burned, what he thought to be tears dripped from them and he forced himself to sleep, waking up the next morning with a headache and scratch marks on his face. 

The two Emiles remain silent, staring at each other with unwanted fear and sudden rage before Iris pipes up, a growl behind their voice that Marshall hasn't heard before. 

“We talked.”

“You said you were going to apologize,” Casper spits.

“And I did! I told him why I called him dangerous, I explained to him—“

A blast shoots past them, narrowly avoiding their face. It burns through the wall instead, leaving behind dust where bricks used to be. 

Marshall stills, too scared to move anymore—

Iris places a hand on his shoulder and he chokes back the words on his tongue, too poisonous for him to bare. So he lets them rest their hand and Casper sneers, frown deepening. The raven near him threatens to shriek again and he grabs it quickly, keeping her beak shut.

"Leave," Casper spits. 

Iris lifts their other hand and crafts symbols in the air. “Were you ever going to tell him?”

“I said, leave.”

Iris is silent. The ciphers around their hand move like clockwork, twisting and turning in a way Marshall's never seen, a sliver of admiration threatening to slip past despite his loud, palpitating heart. Vernada's lips curl back in a sneer, brow creasing as Casper fires yet another blast, the fire's heat felt even from where Marshall sat (why was he still sitting?). They counter it — the magic throws Casper against the wall, shock plastered on his face for a mere second, but rage moves him forwards, yelling, screaming and shouting. "Out!" Casper yells. And it's not directed towards Marshall — not this time — but his breathing fastens, and he can't hear the raven's cries of help over the drumming in his head. 

He shrugs off Iris’ hand — the demon startles for a moment, surprised, before turning back to face Casper — and he staggers off to the side, trying to keep his distance from the two of them—

Then the raven claws at his hands. He hisses and throws it to the floor, her wings rapidly fluttering to keep her airborne. She croons and as the witches argue, their yelling becoming muted noises in the background, she lunges at him. She aims for his eyes and he tries to pry her off when she digs her talons in, shrieking and screaming loudly and repeatedly.

“Get her off!” He screams and the duel seems to diminish. 

He can hear Iris’s voice, telling him to calm down, and then Casper’s footsteps approaching. Someone — Casper, it seems — grabs his hands and tries to snatch the bird away but Marshall can’t see. Too many things are happening at once and his heart’s racing and Iris starts yelling for some reason and then, and then—

He shoves the older man away, hears him stagger and nearly trip over himself with a choked gasp. And then, the raven screams in his face, once more, and he acts without thinking. Digging his nails (claws) into her sides, she releases him, startled, and tries to fly away but he keeps her steady in his grasp. And Casper yells at him, “Stop!”, but he doesn’t hear it. Marshall bashes the raven’s head into the wall, listens to her cawing become more frantic, panicked — and he throws her to the floor, heaving.

And he watches as her breath staggers, wings broken and useless. She wheezes out a caw and falls forwards, the blood on her body now dripping from Marshall’s hands as well.

He feels sick.

Casper’s the first to move, ever the saint, and grabs Marshall by the collar, pulling him up so harshly he chokes, gasping for air as he yells.

"I told you to stop!" 

His vision is blurry. 

"Can’t you ever listen to me!" 

His chest tightens. 

"You utter disgrace—" 

He can't  _ breathe _ . 

Marshall musters up some strength — any — to steady himself, watches as Casper’s lips move and sees Iris making their way towards them from his peripheral — and then he urges his head forwards. It clashes against Casper’s face and he recoils, releasing him and he coughs, grabbing his own neck to smoothen out the skin (he can feel the bruises forming already).

There’s hands back on his shoulders and he nearly screams — but he sees the purple and green and his body simply tenses. Iris runs their hands through his hair, tilts his chin up and to the left and right, their lips moving but with no words coming out.

His ears ring. Iris’s eyes glow and he can hear Casper — he sounds furious — and Marshall tries to speak—

A hand is placed on his mouth. 

“Listen to me,” their voice is frantic. It seems distant. Has he ever heard it that way? “You’re going to sleep. And when you wake up, I want you to run.

Marshall tries to speak — but no words come out. Iris cups his face and smiles.

“Run.” Iris says. And their eyes go fully black, terrifying and disgusting — and Marshall ends up seeing nothing but that dark, slimy color even as his eyes close — and he feels himself going to sleep.

He doesn’t have any nightmares.

—

Marshalls blinks his eyes open. 

It’s cold and the ground is soft. The trees are tall, covered in snow in a way that looks like frosting. He feels the wind on his face—

It feels heavy. There’s blood caked on his face, he can _ feel  _ it, flaking away, and a small crow — not a raven — sits on his chest, pecking away at him. It looks at him and stops, settling down on his chest as if it were a nest. Marshall breathes and then, and… he closes his eyes, unable to remain awake. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun times :)


	4. Hail Mary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ..a prayer that goes unnoticed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A feral animal will only attack when it is provoked. You can try and tame said animal but remember, even a dog will bite its owner if it is hurt/provoked/hungry enough.
> 
> Chapter 4 BABYYYYY woo
> 
> I spent 3hrs on this and I did NOT expect myself to go over the word limit of 7k,,, but i did and we're moving on
> 
> The story is not going to hold your hand anymore and I am telling you this right now: there are some gore-ish scenes in this chapter, along with some religious text (prayers, bible quotes, etc) so if you're uncomfortable with that then,, i suggest you drop the fic entirely considering it does involved demons and angels
> 
> Thank you neec very very much for beta-ing this chapter, you're a trooper and thank you to my friends for reading this fic it makes me happy that y'all like it sm :')
> 
> and finally:
> 
> Marshall is nb and uses he/him and they/them! Sorry for not mentioning it before, i thought i /did/ but it smtimes slips through my head nvdjk so yeah!!
> 
> Enjoy the shitshow!

Marshall hates the cold weather.

Back home in Norway, the cold weather was a thorn on his side that never seemed to go away, even when spring came along, he could feel the underlying cold from his blood. And as such, he was told to stay inside until it went away. But it never did, and Marshall could tell you every crack in the walls of the house, every blood shed that had ever landed on the floor of his room, the amount of steps it took to get from the kitchen and back to his room. It was engraved in his memory and he knew that house like the back of his hand. 

Casper swore to him every night that when he was eight that he’d be allowed to leave one day. He tucked him in and brushed the hair away from his face. And Marshall believed him, so he learned to endure the cold.

Now he hates it.

He lays in the cold blanket underneath him, thinking about the promise he’d been made all those years ago, so distant, as a fresh batch of snow begins to fall. It covers his nose, his eyelids, his cheeks, his hands...

It felt so peaceful and it ached to think about how, for the first time in his life, he was free from the hand that was placed on his shoulder for so long, but he was also lost, here, in the cold weather that kept him trapped in that room — that house — for so long. He opens his mouth but all that comes is an inaudible sigh and all that strength he had leaves him, kissing him goodbye as the snow lands on his lips. 

—

When Marshall wakes and opens his eyes, he immediately closes them with a groan. He's covered in white, up to his neck, and it shines brightly with the sun glaring down at him through the trees. Marshall can only imagine how much harsher it'd be without the branches covering the light partway, his eyes still sensitive from sleep. He adjusts to the brightness in a few moments and takes a look around him, now seeing the woods in its most natural state for the first time. 

His eyes flicker to and from the trees and its dark green leaves, to the tracks left on the snow. His form slowly rises as the adrenaline in his body rushes through, waking him up almost immediately. The birds from the treetops chitter, moving away when he stumbles forwards, grasping on to the nearest trunk of wood for support, his nails digging into the bark. He stares at the marks of an animal — wolf, maybe — that move in a circle then become frantic, moving away from him and then sprinting off to the right of him. His breath comes out as a wheeze, repeated and his nails dig harder into the bark as he tries to picture an animal, around his size, ready to devour him, running away from something — another predator. He swallows, throat dry, and pushes himself off of the tree, placing a hand to his forehead as he breathes, breathes, breathes.

His throat simply  _ burns _ .

He touches the skin, feeling the bumps and warmness of it all, and his nails scratch at the obvious purple marks that encircle him. With each nail he remembers a moment from his dream — from last night. One, the clock struck twelve and Iris had apologized. Two, he's a monster (a demon or so, what was the difference?) and a blue-blooded one at that. Three, he's dangerous. Four, his father, his mentor, the man who's raised him for over nineteen years, strangled him. And the nail digs in the deepest at that, drawing blood as he trails it down to his collarbone, remembering how those green eyes — the ones he's told himself would look at him lovingly one day — looked at him as if he were a mistake. A mistake, a mistake — when hasn't he ever seen those eyes? That disappointment?

Marshall spits the bile in his mouth. He wipes his mouth, bitter. His ears catch the small, soft call of an animal. It sounds hurt. Something in him, a small force, nudges him forwards and he starts walking towards the sound. As he travels through the woods, he watches the flora and fauna that make themselves known during this time, so early and bright and new. With each step, he was silent, and the animals would remain where they were. Some foxes scurried by, yipping in ecstasy that Marshall was jealous of, carrying birds in their snouts, burying away in holes on the floor. 

But — he focuses. His curiosity grows as the sound — wail of the animal becomes more and more clear. So, he continues through the forest until he comes along a trail of blood. It's red and fresh, dropped along in frantic spots like a painter cleaning his brush. He follows it, amazed at how it jumped around as if the animal had tried to get rid of it so quickly, and his steps quicken, thinking, what was it running from? From who? Why? He glances up every now and then to avoid the trees because of course they'd be in his way and he thinks about what he's about to see—

His breath hitches.

What Marshall sees is nothing more than a ball of fur, whimpering out cries, licking weakly at its paws. Just a pup, a wolf child, heaving and whimpering its last few breaths. He approaches it, carefully and slowly, moving down to his knees as it startles, trying to push itself upright but failing with a weak cry, its ears swiveling as he moves closer. He stretches out a hand and it growls quietly. He waits and it slowly turns its head to sniff him, a small pink tongue darting out seconds later to warm his hand up. He must find him cold, he realizes. He runs his hand through its fun and it heaves, chest rising up and down in frantic movements, and when Marshall removes it he sees it covered in blood. He sees the sharp claws and fangs, large enough to be able to rip his finger off, to scar him permanently — but it was so small compared to a fully grown wolf, only a babe. Marshall, in his eyes, simply saw a dying child.

He slowly digs his hands under the pup and lifts it up, his voice coming out as strained as he quietly hushes the child. It whimpers when he picks it up, when he sits down and he cradles it, like a mother would do to her baby.

_ It hurts _ , the pup seems to cry. 

He tries to say, “I know”, but no words come out. He can’t speak while this child slows in his hands, breathing out small, careful breaths. And Marshall brings it up, pressing tired, bruised lips to its head as a last good-bye. The pup flinches at the touch, whimpering just the slightest bit, then it closes its eyes.

Marshall has never witnessed death. His heart aches as he holds this child in his hands, tiny heart that has stopped moving carefully set down on his arms as he cradles it, tenderly, and feels as though a piece of his has been ripped off of his soul.

And his hands, the same hands that have ripped through his own skin and dug through a black feathered disguise, were ever so gentle. 

His mourning is interrupted by loud voices. Instincts tell him to hold the body close and he does, covering himself in its blood. Salt stings at his eyes as he runs his hand through its fur like a mother would a child. The voice grows louder and then shouts, “Over there!” with such enthusiasm — then rage. Marshall doesn't raise his head as the voices get louder and louder and—

"What are you doing!" 

Marshall's eyes flinch away from the pup (poor youth, meant to be beautiful, gone too soon), blue eyes narrowing as he stares up at the weapon pointed at him; a bow, handmade most likely, and a pointed arrow aimed for his head. He shifts his gaze upwards upon the intruders, his heart remains a steady beat, unafraid. The woman in front of him grips her weapon tightly. His lips twitch as he looks up at her, holding the pup tighter in his arms, his frame shifting ever so slightly should he need to get up.

As the woman stares down at him, the voices behind them seem to be getting closer. Her eyes flick to the wolf pup in his hands and she says, "That's  _ mine _ ."

Marshall continues to glower at the hunter, and if he wasn't still mourning with the child in hands, he might have laughed; since when do wild animals belong to people? 

He swallows thickly, taking note of her hard brown eyes, ivory skin and curly wave of hair tied behind her head. "He's dead," he sneers, teeth hurting from how hard he grinds them together.

"Doesn't matter. It's still mine." 

As the woman lifts her shoulder, pulls back at the bow, Marshall places a hand to the child's cheek, feels it soft and tender at his skin. He sees nothing more than a playful child who got caught in the heaven's light, strayed too far from its family, and then plunged down to Satan's personal den. His voice nearly catches when he says, "It was a child."

"It's a werewolf," The woman frowns, stepping towards him cautiously, her weapon still drawn. "It's pack was terrorizing my family's flock. I couldn't leave any of them alive they were—"

"I'm exhausted," he says, rather unnecessarily. The woman goes silent. "I got casted away here, I don’t know where I am, my breath tastes of lead and my hands are covered in crimson. My mind is running static, memories of my f—my mentor and the one person I thought I could call a friend arguing, throwing their magic around as if it were nothing." He swallows, placing the child down on the snow and slowly rising to his feet. He remembers black dripping from a mouth so big it could eat him whole. It made him stand firmly on his feet as the woman stepped back now, staring at him with wide eyes. "I woke up to snow and freedom and the fresh air and I felt so sick and tired! I've never experienced this — have you?"

She opens her mouth but Marshall cuts her off. "I heard a cry from the forest. I heard a cry and you know what it said? 'It hurts, it hurts so much' — so I chased it down. I walked and ignored all the riches and tranquility of this forest to find that a child was murdered the same day I arrived here."

The voices, all loud and muffled, now become clear and closer and closer and—

"It was a child." 

It doesn't take long before more hunters arrive, three young men, seeming a few years younger than Marshall was. He doesn't pay attention to them, keeping his eyes on the woman who's gone still, the knuckles from her grip have turned into deadly white. Marshall takes a step towards her and the hunters reach for their weapons in his peripheral, but he doesn't care. "It was a wild animal," she protests, voice frantic. "It was dangerous—"

"And so are you," he snaps. The woman flinches when he grabs hold of the arrow, lets it pierce his skin past the flesh and so deep it nearly hits the bone, her eyes growing wider by the second, hushed gasps coming from the young men behind her. The view, Marshall is sure, appears brutal — he grips the bow tightly with his free hand, covers it in red blood and throws it to the side. And the woman, for lack of better things to do, simply backs away as he edges closer. 

_Like a predator_ , his mind muses.

"Jane," one of the boys says, a tremble in his voice. 

"Jane," Marshall parrots through gritted teeth. "Please, just answer me this."

The woman — Jane — nods, glancing at the boys ("Don't try anything.") She's backed up against a tree as Marshall steps closer and closer, until he's sure he can hear her heartbeat close to his own chest. Frantic and unsteady, like that of a running rabbit's, while Marshall's remains steady and slow, cold and heavy as he leans down, close enough to see the pupils in her eyes shrink down to a single dot. 

_ Just like a predator.  _

"Did you know?" Marshall asks, voice barely more than a whisper now. He doesn't notice his nails growing sharper as the woman's breath hastens. "Did you know it was a child?"

_ The wolf said to the rabbit, 'Did you know?' _

_ And the rabbit said— _

She swallows, and, "Yes," she breathes, her breath ghosting his lips by a fraction. "I did. I d-did. You have to understand that he was so dangerous—"

He nods, so quiet. He surges forwards and takes her hands into his, feeling her pulse under his thumbs as he runs them over the skin, so soft and delicate yet calloused from years of work and work and she smells of animal blood. Animal and creatures alike, he can tell, and the men standing behind him all murmur between each other, breathing in the same scent of murder and genocide between one another. He breathes in the air, a soft smile pulling at his lips as he thinks of the werewolf, the child he'd held for those quiet seconds of its short life. 

He sinks his claws into her skin, pushing past the bruises and soft coat of pink flesh over it, letting it dig right into the red. She starts to say something but Marshall’s quicker to move; he pulls her by her wrists, throwing her to the ground and slamming his foot to her stomach, watching her writhe under her. The boys are screaming, crying out her name, but he keeps moving, twisting his foot into the skin and avoiding the trashing kicks she throws his way. 

_ And the rabbit moves and moves and tries to get out of the wolf’s claws— _

“I’m sorry!” She cries, angry and bitter, her eyes are wide and her blood is warm under Marshall’s touch, seeping through and staining her arms and clothes red as he lifts them up, up, up, never removing the claws hooked under the skin. 

The wolf crushes the rabbit’s tiny body under his jaw, satisfied with the loud crunch it gives— 

He’s witnessed death today, one that was unfair in his own eyes and now he’s the cause of one. That part of him that pushed him forwards, to step towards the child’s cry, now tells him to continue; he removes his foot and pins her down, holding her hands together with just one of his own, and his free hand rests on her face, sprawled out and covering it whole. She and the boys still, confused and anxious (beating hearts so loud and clear to his ears)—

Her skin is soft and fragile, easy to peel when he hooks all five of his fingers on her face, hooking them under his claws and pulls. 

It feels weird, at first, to pull it off as if it were merely glue, but that part of him encourages it. And the wolf pulls off the rabbits flesh to reveal its red meat under all that white fur, and it squeals and screams and cries under the wolf’s claws, but he doesn’t care. He pulls and rips the skin off until it bathes the ground in thick, red water and the rabbit goes still and quiet. 

_ Dead _ , that inner voice tells him.  _ She’s dead. _

Her face is torn to shreds (when did it get like that?), her jaw is snapped open and her skin has been clawed off. It looks like a painting of crimson with the white from the visible teeth, veins ripped and thrown all over her body as if it were merely trash. He holds one of her eyes between his hands, bathed in red that drips slowly in the palm of his hand. There is no sound, it is simply quiet as he gets off of her, crushing her corpse under his heel (the noise of soft flesh being stepped on shouldn’t be so pleasing). The boys have long gone, a pool of rushed foot prints left in their wake. 

Marshall takes one, two, three steps back and admires his work. 

It was _his_ work. 

Jane is dead, ugly and destroyed into a mess of flesh and bones, the only things that remain intact are her hands, only punctured at the wrists by claws. Her face he can no longer remember but it had been so soft and tender to hold in his hands, and now it was simply a morbid sight to see.

And the child. The child looks dead. He is dead and in pain, tiny eyes scrunched close, tightly, as if it had been bracing itself for the incoming anguish from a single wound (a spell, most likely, for he saw no arrow or clear knife cut when he’d held him) and now he was sleeping, peaceful and gone. A tiny child who’s currently battling his way to the gods’ doorsteps, pleading to see its parents once again.

And if they’re in Hell, then all that arguing wouldn’t be worth it. 

He breathes. The air is cool and damp, the sky is clear and the sun is now in the middle of the sky, illuminating the white all around him — he can smell the pines all frosted with thick blankets of snow, and the fauna that surrounds him is gentle and quiet, feathered and furred creatures that are now just waking up. He can smell… a village, not too far from here. 

And he holds on to that, for just one, miserable moment, before the smell is overpowered by the blood. It’s like poison. It flows through his head and he tries to ignore it.

_ Think of the forest _ , he pleads.

But the damage is done. Marshall can only breathe in the red of death. It grasps on to him with its tiny claws (feathered freaks that always tell him to go back to sleep—) and doesn’t want to let go. 

He puts his cold hands to his face, feels the vicious liquid stick to his skin (covering those markings he’s had since birth) and it feels so, so awful. He tries to sob but his throat is clasped tight, he cannot speak as he steps back, clawing at either side of his face as he holds it (gentle, gentle). 

His back hits against a tree (her heart had been racing fast and he’d felt it against his chest) and he feels his legs give in, trembling as they slide off and off until he hits the floor, pain flooding his lower half as he breathes and breathes and breathes— 

He stays there, breathing and trying desperately to cry but his body doesn’t want him to. He feels pain in his chest and stomach and he assumes it’s been a few hours since he’d last eaten (with Iris and Casper talking about him in a language he doesn’t understand) and there’s fresh, decaying meat right in front of him.

‘Jane’, the boys had called her.

Jane is right there.

But thankfully his thoughts are interrupted by crunching snow, the sound of footsteps approaching hastily, coming close from his left — no, right — and he tries to inhale the scent (they’d smelled of genocide, he smells of a single murder) but he’s too weak from forcing his own body to move and—

“Holy  _ shit _ .” 

Marshall only startles, choking on his own spit as those footsteps get louder and louder and then, this man stands just a few steps away from him. His hair is dark and short, tousled and black like charcoal, sleek and glistening as the sun hits it just right. His eyes are green and — were they slitted? — he scans over the corpses, watching them carefully as if Jane would get up any second now. But his caution subsides in a few seconds, a clear puff of white drawing from his chapped lips, a mask tucked under his chin and he turns — 

“Oh, hello.” The man tilts his head as he speaks, the hand at his hand flicking open a small case strapped to his hip. The cap comes off with a small pop and Marshall immediately tries to get his body up from the floor as the man approaches him carefully. 

He’s hushed and then he watches that careful hand lift up the bottle — glowing green but not as green as those eyes — and then shake it. It turns and swirls, starts fizzing the same way Casper’s own potions did back at the house and Marshall doesn’t stop from trying to get up but his legs simply won’t listen.

“Sleep,” the man says before blowing the steam straight towards him.

He chokes as he breathes it in.

It smells of valleys and rose petals.

He sleeps.

———

**November 1999**

Throughout my life I have recited the words engraved on my skin, painted in swirls of black ink, as if it were my prayers.

“Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself.”

And every day as I walk from the little house I call home, to the marketplace, I say my good morning’s and my goodbye’s, smiling wide at the passing villagers in all the right ways. With each hello the words feel a little lighter and with each smile I got in turn made my chest feel warmer with joy and pride at the fact my neighbors shared the same beliefs. 

It put me at ease.

**December 1999**

Today I met a boy covered in blood. 

He huddled away from me, his hands raking at the side of his arms with dried blood flaking off his cheeks and the new, fresh blood dripping from his hands, seeping through his shirt. The farmer’s girl, Jane, laid dead on the floor. I put him to sleep with desacrum, his body sagged and fell forward and I caught him. 

I sent a prayer for the young girl. My eyes pricked with tears that I didn’t want to shed, and my arms shaking as I hugged this stranger closer towards me. It felt sad, to see them both as lost and fickle and sinful as the daemons that roamed. She killed a wolf pup, he killed her. It didn’t seem right. But I kissed his head nonetheless, giving him a blessing and tried what I could to clean his face. I scrubbed harshly against his cheeks, trying to wipe away the markings, before realizing they were permanent and I apologized sincerely. Deeply. 

I then buried Jane, covering it all back up with the snow, mumbling the Old Prayers Aurelius told me to say when met with death, and then I buried the wolf child, too. For the boy’s (man’s?) sake. 

I then picked up the stranger and placed him on my back, grabbing him by his thighs and keeping myself steady as I started to walk back home. His breathing was sagged and uneven, he sounded sick so I picked up my pace. His touch was cool against mine and his head rested against my shoulder and I felt guilty. Guilty of not being there earlier, to stop him from killing Jane or to, at least, correct him for such a horrible action. 

But he still has time to change, I realized. 

I opened my door with little effort of my magic and went to lay him down on my bed. I peeled off the coat he wore, the shirt and pants and undergarments and went to pour warm water into a bucket to wash off the blood from his body. It stuck to him like glue and he stirred awake twice to my dismay, and my desacrum seemed to be doing less and less effects on him after the third time using it. So I washed him quickly and dressed him up in my own sleepwear. I placed a hand to his chest and leaned down to say my prayer.

“O my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee, and I detest all my sins because I dread the loss of Heaven and the pains of Hell...”

Mortals know — the good ones, at least — that one must pray for forgiveness to our savior for each sin we’ve witnessed, whether ours or someone else’s. It is how we must live our ways, offering good deeds to those in need and sacrificing a part of ourselves to please the Lord himself. It is how I was raised by my father and mother. I cannot ask for a better way to live my life. 

I said my prayer and finished with a smile as my shaking hands stilled almost immediately and pulled the covers up to the man’s neck. 

“Good night,” I whispered to him and slept on the living room’s couch.

—

The man awoke that night. 

The first time he screamed, unholy and deafening, startling me awake. I picked up a potion standing atop the coffee table and hastily opened the door to the bed to find him on the floor, clutching his stomach. 

(I pray to my Lord as I write this, I did not do anything to him. I merely touched and gazed upon him but never would I harm another soul for my own gain or benefit. My Lord you know me, for I am your child, and you know that what I speak of is true.)

His breathing was ragged and he was coughing (it sounded wet) loudly. I approached him, kneeling immediately feeling sympathetic and guilty, oh so guilty for allowing him to be in pain—

He kicked me in the chest, throwing me back into the wall with a grunt and I was left there in pain. I wheezed and pushed myself back up to look at him. His body was trembling massively, eyes glinting brightly with so much rage, and I said, “What have I done wrong?”

His eyes widened. He could understand me. A prick of joy pinched at my heart but it quickly fell when he didn’t respond. Merely stared at me as he took in quick breaths, panting and shaking like a wounded animal.

“Did I do something wrong?” I asked him.

His mouth moved but I couldn’t register any of the words he said (maybe he didn’t say any) but what scared me the most was when he picked himself up, still hugging himself, and then, and then—

He opened his mouth and threw up on the floor; black ooze dripping from his lips, sliding down to his neck along with sweat; his breaths became more ragged and exaggerated as he continued to throw up the substance. His knees buckled and he landed back down with a sharp thud, wincing in pain, though whether from the impact or the amount of liquid (?) he’d thrown up, I do not know.

His body kept trembling. Tears leaked from his eyes as they glowed blue and slowly turned yellow (a hybrid?) and I couldn’t get near him. 

The air around us, warm and welcoming, had turned cold and wretchedly so. My fingers were stiff as I brought my hand to my lips and murmured out a meek apology. He looked at me — he looked furious all of a sudden — before letting his head drop, another ragged choke emitting from his mouth. And then, and then, he brought two fingers up to his mouth...

And shoved them all the way to the back of his throat.

He threw up again, this time his blood, a royal blue, mixing in with the black. 

I looked away.

When the chokes and whines and cries all stopped, I turned my head towards him and watched as he crawled further away from me to the farthest corner of the room and let his body drop. The man grabbed his own legs and brought them close to his chest, curling up against himself. 

He must have been cold.

—

  
  


The man’s name is Marshall.

He’s too young to be considered a man, actually, but too old to be a child. Somewhere my age, it seemed. And he talked to me on the fifth day of his stay.

“Let me go,” he said. He looked blank, lips pulled back to a thin white line, the cuts on his face and eyes staring right back at me, looking completely bored. I had watched him throughout the five days: he was a feral animal trapped in a cage. He clawed at the walls when I wasn’t home and bit his own hands when he got anxious. I bought him gloves and he placed them on my nightstand, glaring at me when I tried to offer them again. Right then he was placing the gloves in front of me, his hands bitten and scarred all over, and I stared up at him with pencil in hand. He repeated, “Let me go.” 

“You can walk out if you want to.”

“I want you to let me go.”

“I don’t understand,” I told him. I felt myself frown as I set my pen down and stood. He flinched away from me. “I am not keeping you here against your will.” 

“I am not that naïve.”

“And I am not saying you are!” I raised my voice and felt ashamed, the warmth draining from my face as I murmured a quick prayer for forgiveness. “I am not mocking you, sir.”

And the man started to look furious now. That his expression shifted into that of an animal, ears pinned to the back of his head, eyes slitted and his lips twitched downwards with every word I said.

“You’re tricking me.” He sounded so unsure.

“I am  _ not— _ “

“You  _ are _ !” the man shrieked — banging his hand against the dinner table, so hard I staggered back, my eyes growing wide at the idea of how much it must have hurt him, and backed away from the table altogether. “Who the fuck are you to trick me like this! You keep me here,  _ feed  _ me, give me these  _ fucking _ things—“ he picked up the gloves quickly, lifting them up as he walked closer to me. 

I tried to interrupt but he cut me off, breathing heavily as he kept getting closer. “You expect me to believe this isn’t some sort of trick? That you’re not going to kill me off the second I let my guard down? Do you fucking know who I am!” 

It wasn’t long until I felt my back against the wall, his eyes so close to my face—

“You are in pain. Please, just let me help—“

“ANSWER ME!”

I tried to lean further back against the wall as he leaned in, his breath soon waving over my face in small ripples, and his eyes were a cold shade of blue; I felt trapped. I swallowed thickly, breathing in through my mask and then lifting up a hand to pull it down. He flicked his gaze towards it and then back at me. He looked so scared and angry.

I couldn’t help it; my voice dropped to a quiet whisper that I didn’t recognize. It wasn’t me. “The Lord says to help thy neighbor if he needs it and you were in so much pain. I saw you and, yes, you killed Jane but I couldn’t stand by and leave you there to die by some other sinner’s hands. You have to understand that I am willing to love you like I loved Jane and her father and her brothers, please.”

My hand stilled as he grasped it, claws scrapping the thin layer of my skin. I kept my eyes on him as he leaned in closer; our noses almost touched.

He was scanning me. Searching for something I couldn’t quite understand —

And he hissed. “Do you believe in God?”

The question made me relax, in a way. My head had imagined something far worse than the outcome and I was ashamed of it til this day. I answered in a single breath, “Yes.”

He tilted his head slightly, as if to see me better someone and it was then that I felt my heart pound against my chest. A drum beating loudly as he breathed—

He pulled away, taking a single step back without letting go of my hand.

The man murmured, “Marshall.”

I stared at him. My heart did not still.

“My name is Marshall.” He sounded tired then.

It was then that I realized it was a test of sorts. After five days of silence I had gotten an answer to the question lingering inside my head and I couldn’t even bless him for coming to his senses and seeing that I meant no harm — my own voice felt so new and full of wonder.

“I’m Acacius,” I said to him.

Another beat from the drum that sounded too loudly in my head and he let go of me. He nodded once and turned away from me. He dragged himself to the bedroom, past the gloves and dinner table, and closed the door quietly.

My mouth felt  _ numb _ .

—

A week had passed since I learned his name.

He was not what I expected.

—

He laughs at random. When I least expect it and I end up wondering what could ever be so amusing, and then he points out that my hair is still uncombed or that my coat is being worn the wrong way.

But I cannot be mad, not when he sounds so happy.

“At least you’re smiling,” I’d say and fix myself up, offering a smile of my own.

—

  
  


He tells me that he has nightmares at some point. I offered to get rid of them, just a simple mixture or possibly a small spell—

“No.” He looked at me solemnly. His voice was a whisper against a raging storm. “I deserve them.”

I didn’t understand him.

All I could think about at the time was finding a solution. And I thought I had one.

“Do you want me to sleep with you?”

Startled, he said, “Why?”

I simply smiled and told him it could help with the nightmares.

He refused immediately.

A few days later, he left the door open and said, “Wake me up if I start crying.” Neutral. Emotionless. 

I nodded and closed the door when I entered.

And I had felt some sort of dread as I laid next to him, turning to my side as I watched him sleep, waiting for him to start stirring and thrashing—

But it never came.

He slept in peace that night.

—

I took Marshall to the village. 

I covered him up in my cloak, made it so his ears were protected when he mentioned being unable to shift them away, and gave him some prayers to recite when we got there.

“I don’t  _ pray _ ,” he deadpanned. His voice was husky. The sun was barely up yet and it appeared the man himself was still half-asleep. From the way his eyes were half-lidded and his ears drooped down to the sides of his head, it was less of a wolf that was ready for hunt and more akin to that of a cat that was disturbed from his precious nap.

“But you must.” I insisted. But he wouldn’t open his mouth to even say ‘Amen’ so I told him he didn’t have to speak at all if he didn’t want to.

He looked pleased when he walked out of the house and stepped out into the snow. His feet were bare and he refused to put any sort of shoes on, opting instead to feel the cool of the ground right under the paw pads that he wore comfortably under his heel.

I had once asked, when we were eating dinner, if he was a sort of werecat or a leopard. He looked up from his meal, blood dripping from his lips, and told me, “I am me and that’s all that matters.” 

I felt disappointed but I didn’t voice it. He failed to clean the mess from his mouth so I leaned over and ran my thumb and wiped him clean.

When I looked back at him he was staring with something close to that of a smile but not quite... 

I left it at that.

When we arrived at the village he stuck by my side. His warmth radiated off of him and stuck to me, which I happily accepted. I said my good morning’s and hello’s to the bakers and huntsmen as I passed them. They awaited for his good morning but he simply nodded and kept walking, not seeming to notice the disappointment in their eyes. I do not think he cared.

I was supposed to get us food for the next week, grabbing at red and white meat for both of us with some wine and fruit to even it all out, and I told him to stay in line for the fresh rabbits and peasants while I went to get our drinks.

I bid Mister Reyes a good morning, smiling at tiny Riley as he carried in a bottle from the pile for me to take, and told him to stay safe during the upcoming Solstice and he smiled back, wrinkles pulling at his eyes like always—

When I returned to Marshall he was crouching down to the side of the fruit merchant, flicking his tail side to side. I walked closer and I heard him speak,

“...and you say, ‘ _ Stijen’ _ .”

And then another, smaller voice.

“ _ Stijen _ ?”

“Yes.” He sounded happy. “My friend taught me how to do it.”

I walked closer and saw the merchant’s daughter crouching in front of Marshall, one hand placed on top of her leg while the other drew a poorly made circle into the snow, adding lines and more shapes to it—

“Your friend is a wizard?” Her voice squeaked.

Marshal head tilted to the side, moving one arm to guide her finger; he made her draw symbols inside the circle and then out then placed her bare hand into the snow. For a single moment it glowed then diminished. 

“My friend was a doctor. A good one. They taught me and their apprentice well, and I’m sure one day you’ll find your own teacher.”

And they way he’d said it sounded cold and quiet.

Like a lone man mourning his dead friend.

—

I asked him about his Doctor once. It’d been another week since the village.

He looked up from the dishes he’d been washing, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, showing off markings that clung to dark, scarred skin. I tried to focus on his reaction. “What?” he said, eyes alert.

I told him, “You said you had a doctor friend. At the market.” I felt ashamed for bringing it up but I tried to keep my voice even.

My words lingered in the air. We both stilled, and stood in silence, not daring to look away for each other in fear of...  _ something _ . Again, my heart drummed the sound of panic.

“They’re dead.”

My heart slowed down to a stop, for a single second, and my eyes grew wide at the words. “They died months ago. We walked in the woods and they taught me some magic, but I couldn’t control it.” Marshall captured my gaze and held it steady as he stalked towards me. “I screamed at them out of anger and soon I found myself back home, with my father’s familiars telling me I was nothing more than a monster. There was blood on my hands and I couldn’t see with the tears in my eyes. I keep the fact that my friend died because of me in my head every day that I wake up. I killed them and I have not been punished enough for it.”

Blue eyes were standing in front of me, again. 

It felt different this time.

He was waiting. Seeking a reaction. 

I don’t know what came over me but I reached for his hand and held it between my own.

I said, “You are not dangerous, Marshall. Not to  _ me _ .” 

And I don’t know what I expected, but he squeezed my hand tightly and we stood there for a minute, not daring to break apart from each other.

—

“Why do you not pray?” I asked him.

His eyes were closed as he laid on the couch, jacket and shirt discarded as I leaned in and watched him breathe in and out. A single eye opened to meet my gaze and I smiled. He stared for a moment, unfazed before closing it back up with a sigh.

“I’m not religious. I wasn’t raised that way.”

“Then it is not your fault.”

“For what?”

“Being so impure.” 

He didn’t talk to me for the rest of the evening after that.

—

At some point, during a storm, we stayed up all night sitting on the bed poking at each other.

I had asked, “Can I touch your ears?”

And he said, “Yes.”

I didn’t expect it but I couldn’t refuse the offer. They felt soft and they flicked away when I rubbed them for too long and my heart couldn’t control itself when I found him looking at me as if I were  _ prey. _

“Your fangs,” he said.

“My fangs..?”

“I want to see them.”

And we kept at it. He trailed a finger down my neck and I held his face in my hands. We asked and always said ‘yes’ and felt so sure and yet we were shy, quiet. We couldn’t hear the rain over the small comments that we passed to each other which were met with chuckles and giggles of joy. 

We didn’t notice it had gotten so late by the time we stopped. 

—

I don’t know why my heart is this way.

—

I woke up one morning to find Marshall’s side of the bed empty. Panic twisting my stomach into knots when the rest of the house is quiet, untouched, and I found no footprints leading anywhere outside. My breaths were ragged and unfiltered, my mind clouded with thoughts that did nothing to help my heart.

And then—

I felt something cold fall on my head. I instinctively jumped out of the way. I tilted my head up, covering my eyes from the shine of the sun and took a step to the side, avoiding another assault from the snow.

And then I heard,

“Sorry.”

Quiet and sheepish. A voice still husky but I could very clearly picture a smile on the owner’s face.

I let out a small chuckle. It wasn’t hard to get to the roof, a normal spellcaster could manage to propel themself up and land safely on top but when I got there I felt dazed at the discovery.

He sat there with his back facing towards me, shielded by a pair of gorgeous curtains of white, soft and gentle. I walked and sat next to him on the edge, letting my legs dangle alongside his. The sun was slowly going up further in the sky, covering the land in a soft light. I looked at him and found those blue eyes waiting for me. 

He said, “I was shocked when I saw them.”

“You didn’t know?”

“No... not really.” He sounded unsure. He reached back and pulled at the first few feathers, watching him with.. child-like wonder. He looked young. “I was going to tell you but you were asleep.”

I wanted to touch them. I knew what they’d feel like — they were no different than the others I’ve seen, but I was drawn to them. To him. I moved closer and he let go, moving them once, then twice, before they draped down across the tiles. I smiled.

“I think they’re beautiful. Do you?” I couldn’t keep the warmth I felt hidden in my words. I knew he felt them, too. 

He smiled at me. His words felt sweet when he whispered to me, “I do.”

—

Angels often visit the country. They scout the area and take up any volunteers that wish to be cleansed and purified, a process that was perfect in every way, and they always left with a bright smile on their face.

They always knocked and gave the commoners time to prepare for their arrival. They were expected to accept offerings and eat a wholehearted meal served with a prayer at the beginning and a blessing at the end. 

“The Lord is most pleased,” they’d say and kiss the heads of their hosts sweetly, promising to return soon (and they always did).

I myself never had such visitors. The neighbors are always thrilled when the time comes, making their houses look as presentable as possible and cooking the richest meals for their guests — but I never had the chance to experience such a sight. For I have no reason to welcome one of my own into my home, for they know I am true and take my job to heart. 

And yet I cook for them. 

I clean and cook and thank them when the sun sets for their patronage, blowing out the last candle and leaving the food covered for the next day.

I told Marshall to stay inside and when he asked me why I couldn’t keep the grin from my face.

“The Angels are visiting.”

His reaction wasn’t what I expected. I tried to stop him but he took his (my) cloak and pushed his way out the door. I raced after him, my own jacket forgotten inside the closet, and I called after him. He turned and glanced but he didn’t stop, slowly picking up the pace and I nearly lost him — but his arm was in my grasp as I tried to calm him down.

I started to tell him it was alright and that He did not judge on those that didn’t believe in Him but he wouldn’t budge.

“Let me go.” He said. Begged. 

“No,” I told him, defiant. I tightened my grip on him unconsciously.

“They’ll kill me.”

“They won’t! They really won’t, you’re being irrational—“

Marshall turned around completely and I quieted. His eyes were clear and full of tears that wanted to seep through but he wouldn’t let them. He took my hand and croaked, “They’ll _ kill _ me, Acacius. They  _ will _ .”

He sounded so sure and  _ scared _ . And a part of me saw this as irrational. Childish. But he was my neighbor and my oath was my  _ life _ , so I squeezed his hand and sighed at him.

“Alright.” I said. “You can… stay out until they’re gone. They leave at sunset — you can come back a little later, just in case.”

“Promise me.” He licked his lips, looking back at the house, frowning and swiveling his ears to pick up at surrounding sounds (any footsteps nearby) and then he looked at me. Pleading. “Promise me you won’t say anything about me.”

I didn’t think much of it. 

I said, “I promise.” And watched him relaxed, releasing a breath he was holding on to, and then he let go of me and ran. I stood there, staring at him until he was nothing more than a moving figure in the distance and then walked back, feeling uneasy.

The feeling faded away soon after, though. 

— 

I feel ashamed. I am ashamed. 

Lord, Father all-powerful, and ever-living God, I beg you, for I have stayed devoted and true, I am your  _ son _ , birthed from the Heavens where I was sanctified, I implore you to forgive me. I am a sinner in the kindness of your mercy. You know this to not be of my own influence, I have been tainted, touched by someone sent to corrupt me. I pray that these holy words may not bring me condemnation and punishment but forgiveness and salvation. May it be a helmet of faith and a shield of goodwill. Purify me, father, for I do not wish to love anyone else but you. 

— 

Marshall makes his way back home when the stars are out, dancing around the country, performing some sort of ritual that he finds to be mesmerizing. They blink down at him and he smiles back, the anxiety he’d been feeling over the past few hours diminishing, and as he walks he can only think of how lonely Acacius must be feeling right now. 

_ Hurry up then, don’t keep him waiting. _ A voice ushers him and they pick up their pace, trotting.

He’s gotten used to the warm, welcoming feeling whenever he made his way home (what a funny thing, to call  _ this _ his home when his bed was still someone far, far away from here) but now their heart skips a beat in ecstasy, feeling anxious in a way that brought a smile to his face and… other things. Marshall cannot find the proper words to describe the way his whole person brightens when Acacius comes home and embraces him in a tight hug or when he combs his hair or anything, really. 

But — it doesn’t matter. 

He feels  _ happy _ . And he can’t keep the smile on his face from growing as he sees the lights from the little house he’s learned to call his. And his hand curls into a small fist as he reaches up to knock— 

“… _ you’re insane. _ ”

All that happiness. The joy and ecstasy he’s learned to accept as a part of himself now, is gone. His hand stills and his body goes rigid. The voice is muffled, as if it were covered by some sort of mask, but he can hear their words, tired and chastising. 

“I did what was right _. _ ” Acacius. He sounds troubled, out of breath and,  _ What did they do to you? _ Marshall wonders, trying to listen for the voice. It had to be an angel - but the voice was too uninterested, unbothered, nothing like how he’d imagined it to sound. Nephalem? No, couldn’t be. 

And before he can keep guessing, Acacius speaks up again. “I found him scared half to death with blood covering his whole body, Aurelius. I couldn’t leave him there, I couldn’t leave a hurting soul -”

“He’s a  _ demon, _ ” Aurelius sighs. Truly sighs, deep and annoyed. 

He hears some footsteps, their voice seemingly further away from the door. Aurelius continues, his steps slow and calculating, as if he were circling something (or someone). 

“Forgive me for saying this Acacius, but you have gone  _ cruel _ . You trick a young man into believing you care for him and then feed him and clothe him. He trusts you and that is why you want to keep him around. It’s too far, too cruel.” He halts to a stop. Some shuffling and then, “Does he even know you’re an angel?” 

And Marshall could almost laugh. It was ridiculous! It had to be. No, he could feel a grin coming back up on his face, unsure of himself as he thinks of the storms, the marketplace, the way they had sat together on top of the roof… the small remarks of being  _ impure. _ Before he can argue with himself, Acacius speaks up.

A single word, “No.” And then, after a pause, “Crucifying a demon is far more cruel than chipping away at his magic when he sleeps, Aurelius. It doesn’t hurt them. They think they’re sick - and then accept some medicine and food and before they can find out what’s wrong, they die. It’s quite simple and gentle, nothing like the sins you commit every day when you leave them out to bleed by daybreak.”

He can’t breathe.

“You said you loved him,” Aurelius adds in. “You wrote it down in your stupid little journal for everyone to see - “

“That was then. This is now.” 

“You’ll break his heart.” 

If they could see him right now, he was sure they’d pity him. He falls down to his knees, slow and quiet as they talk, covering his mouth with hands (they’re gloved, they smell of petals and valleys) trying to muffle out his sobs as he thinks,  _ stupid, stupid, stupid! _

He can still hear them - they keep talking as he cries right in front of them. “I asked the Lord to forgive me,” Acacius says. “I prayed and He delivered, rid me of my sins. I cannot hurt someone whom I love, Aurelius. I had to ask him to get rid of that and then I felt  _ pure _ .” He sounded  _ happy _ . So fucking happy as he said those words and Marshall could picture the smile on his face (always grinning, always smiling down at him). 

“You, Acacius, my friend,” the angel starts quietly, soft and light and then it grows to anger. “You are a  _ fucking _ disgrace, you filfthy  _ snake _ .” 

Acacius laughs, right out  _ laughs _ as if the situation was amusing. Marshall picks himself up from the floor as Acacius starts speaking again.  _ The Lord is right and never does any wrongs, Aurelius, for you see, I am doing what he wants and this and that and  _ \- 

Marshall kicks the door open with such force it breaks, falling to the floor in one swift swoop.

The two angels startle, snapping their mouths shut as they flick their gaze to the floor and then back up to him. They don’t move nor blink as Marshall heavily breathes, his eyes blurring with angry tears that threaten to start falling again if his heart doesn’t stop stomping against his chest (it’s always, always his heart). From here he can take in the sight of the two; Acacius seems to relax almost instantly at the sight of him, unwavering and he  _ dares _ to smile at him, sweet and  _ toxic _ ; Aurelius has his hands stuffed inside the pockets of his coat, his face covered up with a black mask and his hair a golden color, with green pupils surrounded by pure black.

_ T _ _ heir eyes are  _ __ _ hollow and black, a single drop of color that comes from their pupil differentiating them from the Archangels- _

He curls his hands into fists and then uncurls them, feeling too many emotions all at once as he takes in the situation. Pain? Yes. Betrayal? Yes. Heartbreak? He’s never felt it this way before and nor does he want to keep feeling it, he wants it to stop, please he just wants it to go  _ away _ -

Acacius places his hand on Marshall’s shoulder. It feels cold. 

He whispers, “I’m so sorry.” 

Marshall screams, a shout filled with so much raw anger that Acacius’ resolve cracks and he tries to step back, but Marshall is faster. He grabs him by the collar of his shirt and  _ slams _ his fist to the side of his face. The snake chokes, trying to move away (coward, coward, coward) but he doesn’t let him. And no one stops him from doing it again.

And again.

And again, again, again,  _ again _ -

It happens so fast and Marshall can’t keep up with it, the sound of flesh ripping away from the bone was satisfying. It felt good to hear those muffled screams, to see green (green blood!) drip from his hands and paint the floor into an ugly mixture of brown and muck. And he starts begging,  _ I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry _ but Marshall pretends not to hear it. He blinks and startles himself at the sight of Acacius bleeding from.. everywhere.

His face has been cut and his arm is missing a  _ chunk _ of flesh, bleeding out into a puddle underneath him and it tastes so sweet on Marshall’s tongue but it’s wrong. It’s wrong, it’s wrong, what has he  _ done _ ?

But he doesn’t have time to dwell on it. He’s yanked away from the angel, quick and fluid until he’s pressed against someone else (he feels unsafe and protected at the same time, why is that? Were all angels like this?) and then the quiet  _ whisper _ of a spell as an arm wraps around him, lodging itself right above his throat. And he doesn’t think, only acts, when he throws his head back, trying to hit at least the mouth of the angel - but nothing. No collision. Nothing at first and then he feels a burning, searing pain -

“Relax.” It’s the other angel. What was his name? Auri. Arel-

Aurelius curses, and Marshall tries to squirm away from him, thrashing under his hold but the angel doesn’t budge- 

“Sleep,” Aurelius says out loud. Marshall stills and tilts his head back, looking up at him with wide, confused eyes, and when he doesn’t say anything, Aurelius continues, “sleep and you won’t feel anymore pain.”

Oh.

_ Oh.. _

Silence. There’s three, maybe four, voices that start to yell inside Marshall’s head. Something he hasn't heard since he first arrived here and started to call this place home, but he doesn’t listen to them. He looks back at the body of his friend, who he loved and then betrayed him, and feels himself growing sick. And tired. 

A hand clasps on top of his eyes. It feels oddly warm. Reminds him of lying down near a fireplace.

“Sleep,” he whispers.

And he does. His last thought, before everything goes black, is what would Iris think of him now. 

— 

The first thing he notices is he’s warm, very warm, and the room is devoid of life. No angel nor demon to greet him when he stirs awake. 

Second, someone is humming. It’s quiet and almost soothing, if not for the fact that he was unable to move, his entire body feeling numb. His mind wanders and he almost smiles and says,  _ I’m dead _ , but before he can, another voice pips in.

_ Oh, come weary travelers of old, _ it sings.

And he listens to it. It sings and then, a hand runs through his hair, carefully avoiding his ears and he almost falls back to sleep when-

“How is your heart?” the voice asks. 

And Marshall… stays quiet. He doesn’t open his eyes and doesn’t move. 

“Do you know my name?” 

_ No. _

“It’s Fyodor,” says Fyodor, amused.

_ Who? _

“A dragon. A friend. Would you like a friend, cub?”

_...I’m exhausted. _

“Yes… do you want me to help?”

_ What will you do? _ __  
__  
“Take away what you don’t need: the pain, the heartache, the memories. Would you like that?”

_...Yes. _

“Then, you don’t need these.” Fyodor says and his hand runs through Marshall’s hair one last time, humming quietly that nice song, and he grips at a bone from Marshall’s, where the feathers begin. The pull is strong and Marshall can’t feel pain when the claws sink it to tear off the flesh. He cannot feel it. He doesn’t feel anything.

It reminds him of when you insert a scalpel into the flesh, cutting thin little shapes and then digging under it to scoop the shape up. The scalpel digs further in and cuts at the very bone that connects the body to the wings and with a  _ click _ it cuts and breaks. The scalpel is made up of sharp, sharp material, sharp enough for the wings to peel off easily, the strength of the surgeon magnificent.

Feathers dance as Fyodor plucks them off, one by one, until not a single feather is left on Marshall. 

He feels  _ numb _ .

And then, and then, and-

He closes his eyes and falls right back asleep while Fyodor hums, running his hand through his hair, covering it in his own blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)


End file.
